Thick black smoke bellows skyward from the cobblestone square.
The crowd stands silent while the monk's frail fingers hold firm.
They watch as the night turns day from the fire.
He sits cross-legged and his face is bent towards the stars.
His red robes drenched in gas that he lit himself.
His bald head is bubbling, his mouth wide open.
He utters no cry though his eyes say he should.
He sits unmoving, silent, hearing nothing.
The man is the fire, and the fire the man.
This is his speech; though wordless.
He is like the rage of a forgotten name.
He was sparked to action by words of the heartless.
The flames nip the air, and bat out the darkness.
The silence is the last scream of his sermon.
The charred stone is his epitaph that he meant as a hymn.
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