All is fire, in passion’s kiln
All is fire, in passion’s kiln; whilst drying my green lumber
From felling too now, she the sawmill hungers
Debarking my soul, to take its control
Extracting my core, to taste its furor
All is fire, in passion’s kiln; whilst baking my malted barley
The grains from which soon whiskey pour
Brews my nectar, as her sheath takes its sword
Then sprouts my spore, we germinate once more
All is fire, in passion’s kiln; whilst fusing my ferrous earth
Her heat bellows with countless a gasp
Smelting my ore, to loosen emotion
Scraping my scrap, to bestow my being’s best potion
All is fire, in passion’s kiln; whilst firing my potter’s clay
Her hands caressed, my now splendid display
Baking my body, to make the changeless change
After tending my senses, with her artistic play
All is fire, in passion’s kiln; whilst burning my soon burnt body
Cremated I will lay, just dust today
My parched heart, all but vapor in her mind’s cloud
Beatless its beat, howbeit for her it beats
