Fire

There’s something in the fire that carries me to distant dimensions… right inside my chest. If you look closely at a bonfire, you’ll see the wood slowly transform into ashes, like fleeting kisses exchanged between young lovers, drunk on the sweetness of something just lost—until it finally turns into a hearty chuckle, filling the air with a warm, lingering, almost sensual taste.

I remember that night, when, in the middle of our collective insomnia, a chill breeze slipped in from the very core of the Earth. It pierced the floor beneath our feet and ran like a shiver up our spines. And yet, the fire always prevailed, wrapping anyone who came near in its embrace—like a grandmother reminding you that, whether you believe it or not, you are a soul immune to harm. You were born in the heart of a volcano, in the forest, in the sea. You’ve come only to be loved, and even if your body is broken, even if your flesh dissolves, you will rise again, from love to love.

“Carry your heart through this world like a life-giving sun” — Hafiz

I also remember how the fire carried away traumas, guilt, and fears, devouring the feathers of fallen angels—especially those who struggled at the start of the night against their owl-like darkness. I could see their sorrow leave their bodies like serpents of clay, shedding from muscles that had long grown accustomed to holding them.

The fire doesn’t wait for permission. It bites the tobacco that begs to be lit, standing before you as if to say,

“Here I am. Whenever you wish to rewrite a story, whenever you long to put your fears to rest, I will always be here, waiting to ignite your spirit anew.”

It settles on its throne, surrounded by stones, silent witnesses to the universe from the very first spark of light, rolling down from other eras. Its golden crown is stirred by the wind, heavy with poems, inspiring both grandeur and tenderness. Like a wild river ending in dew, like the dim light in your eyes that becomes one with mine.