From break of dawn,

the blazing morn,

now burns all things away.

Tell me finch

and sparrow,

shall there again

be this timeless, red calenture?

These days with fire filled,

cicada-dreamed,

a sickness sung and shrilled

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a song whined in the

chord of crickets

and mosquitoes

feasting anew

on this fever-wearied blood,

oppressed by heat

and the lethargy of these

slowly passing days,

Indifferent, I watched

the westering sun

consume the earth

with its god-cursed

fire,

and considered myself

damned,

like every other soul

in hell.