Deep in the wood where the hazels twist
His smoldering mound wears a cloak of mist
Seven nights turning oak into breath
Watching the slow creeping dance of death
The earth hums low where the embers sigh
Blackening stars in their charcoal sky
No birds dare sing near the smoking
ground Even the wind walks soft around
Oh,
burn it slow, burn it true
Turn living wood into midnight's hue
The fiddle's mute and the mandolin still
Where the fire writes what the tongue can't
tell Weep,
willow, weep by the kiln's dark door
Ashes remember the sap they bore
She came at dusk with a baker's hands
Trading bread for the blackened
brands Left a kiss like a spark unsung
And a name in the dirt with her fingertip drawn
Now the accordion wheezes the tune she'd play
As he feeds the mound with the choices he's
made The village needs what the forest grieves
A harvest of shadows no daylight sees Oh,
burn it slow,
burn it true
Turn living wood into midnight's hue
The fiddle's mute and the mandolin still
Where the fire writes what the tongue can't tell Weep,
willow,
weep by the kiln's dark door
Some ashes remember the sap they bore
The moon cuts coins from a tinker's purse
The kiln exhales its universe One
wrong breath and the world goes black
Cold dreams never wander back Oh,
the baker's daughter wears flower-like
snow But her oven burns with his long-ago
Now
the clearing's quiet, the mound grown cold
The raven's the only witness left to hold
His boots stand empty where the embers bled
A man turned to shadow to smoke to bread
And deep in the village where the hard fires glow
They burn what he made,
but they'll never know