Poem: I Welcome Fire

The deadly flame, locked up in glass,
a ready aim, the sunburnt grass;
the shot rings out, the lantern falls.
Too late his shout, useless his calls;
the fire lives, is spreading fast,
but death it gives, he first, me last—
The smoke is clawing at his eyes
while burning straw, like fireflies,
leaps in the air in faery dance—
and I don’t care. As though in trance
I lay quite still within the pyre;
if him it kills, I welcome fire.