The name between the
dots, was it you,
my lost Firebird?

Listen, I cast off
my knighthood and wear
the tattered cloak to meet
my other self.

Stoke the flames. I
will burn my hands. Do not
weep for my books.

Who will write the
epitaph, when the grave
was desecrated for unknown sin?

The roaring fall
of empire― resonates
with the weeping clouds above
and bleeding earth below.