In the holy of holies

The boy from the hearth

Has already drunk the juice

From her sacred poppies.

He is not afraid

As he is swung through the fire

That can be seen from miles away.

When the swing returns,

On it is a black ram.

On its fleece the initiates

Will stand next year

As they take their oaths.


As he raises the knife,

Abraham is not afraid.

He already knows

The still, small voice

Will speak again.

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