In the middle of a church the faithful stand,
Shoulder touching shoulder, with candle in hand,
Who turn to each other, touching wick to wick
To pass from person to person a faithful lick
Of fire. It takes no more than a second to catch
Before the heat is stirring, and starts to hatch
Out from the wax, wherein the warmth was sleeping,
And soon the candle out of pride is weeping
To witness how the newborn light has learned
To dance, and how its blooming face has burned.
The choir of golden tongues chases the dark
Out of the church, the second saving ark
That even drifting through a moonless night
Knows where to go, for inside it is bright.
In a corner of the church, under the yoke,
I watch my half-formed flame cough up its smoke
On a weak and twisted wick; the candle sighs
And glows like sunset right before it dies.
I ask for another light, and I receive,
But each time I am lonelier to grieve
The little flash that fights for every breath
And then evaporates in silent death.
The cord of cotton blackens like a rot
And if it catches, as a candle ought,
It lives long enough for the hope to rise like bile,
And leaves a sour taste in me for a while.
Between the songs, when all the people shout,
I move my mouth with theirs. No sound comes out.