Is this land less sacred than Delphi?
Is this mountain less hallowed than
the one on which Hermes was born?

Arrangements of small birds are circling exhausted trees,
dismembered branches, the smooth black color of death:
ravenous flames have sucked up their life's mutable light.

Compassion.

Hills warmed by scarfs of gray ash
hold themselves back from sliding
down into already crumbling walls.

Information.

I will read ashes for you, if you ask me.
I will look on the fire and tell you from the gray ashes
And out of the red and black tongues and stripes,
I will tell how fire comes
And how fire runs far as the sea.