The Wood-Burners

Old women are made of wood
Blessed are the wood burners.

The unicorns of the night have come
And the silver priests and the nuns

We are the hunters of the dead
Holy holy in the bitter cold.

Black snow and bone crushed in the wind
The world is a ball of solid ice.

It is my thirteenth birthday
And no one writes to me.

My father is here and my stone mother
After us there will be nothing.

Christe! Christe!
Memento Mori.

She lies naked in the snow
Her arms are broken and her head shaved

Flowers of blood circle her feet
And her tears anoint us

White nuns open her lips
And the priests possess her

My stone mother bathes her in oil
Under torches of snow.

Christe! Christe!
Memento Mori.

After us there will be nothing
We are the wood burners.

We drag her body to the hill
And watch it burn.

The fire eats her till noon
And then sleeps.

Only the bones remain
Damp wood under ashes of snow.

Memento Mori
I am me.

The seventh child in the last game
Iesu Christe.