He will set your fields on fire. He will
Tie the first fire on the tails
Of the little foxes we have caught-
Yet even that vineyard must go.
Only when all the fuel is spent,
In all the spaces of the heart’s creases,
Will the Flame have done its work,
And the distances all obliterated.
Only when your bones have passed
Into the unform of the flaming ether
When His fire has consumed
The very moment of consumption,
And your ash is burned up,
Your weeds and your wheat,
The stubble and the harvest:
Then there remains the single flame in
The vast fields of your heart,
The rows declining to this one point:
Your flesh is
Become His field, and
His flesh is yours
And you are your Beloved’s, and He
Is yours. But the burning comes first.

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