Flames

The fishermen raise the load,
which from hillsides a steep slope,
that of paths define its weight,
and in many long nights
protecting their booty with thick nets,
storms overwhelm them
in docks small by the deep fount;
loud flogs scorch the bay
while gold of a medallion shines,
mounted chance calling from luck,
above the incense, goblets pour,
seeping through lyres of a patron hurt.
Silently the crest swelled,
fire which slow gives a snake,
with ardor the veins bare twist
and foundations spoil and collapse.
For two new wings brings each a pinion,
and the tree moves to give up its crown;
when she sheds, she showers
and many delighted arouse
in her black cave where she sweats
and is abandoned to the passion;
flickering flame in a vision.