If fire were stolen by a god who is tortured
for saving us, then this is what it must mean to love.
But no, it's just a bit of star that will never forgive us
for pulling it out of the sky. This is why fire snaps
at our fingers when we try to hold it. This is why
it will never love us, even though ours
is the only atmosphere in which it can breathe.
And why should it? How have we ever employed it,
but to build and destroy... build and destroy?
When you were a child you didn't see the flame
on the silver object of your desire, so you grasped
what you should never have grasped, thinking
it would please you. Instead, discharge from your
blistering palm soiled your father's handkerchief.

Betrayal has taught you how to live on molten
rock that's covered mostly by ocean, taught you
what a fragile engine the body is, taught you
to trust no person, no thing, no matter how bright
and gleaming. Forget the virtuous martyrs
whose blood soiled the fabric of your imagination.
Forget those saints crucified upside down, their skulls
cracked open by axes, their hearts cleaved from
their bodies, their bodies set ablaze. And that giver
of flame? Forget him too. Each day his liver
is clawed out by talons dispatched by those
who once loved him. And you, when you were young
and virtuous…young and virtuous, even then,
how could you ever doubt that the stars are on fire?