The fire was about to put itself out, when it heard a voice crying out from the brink of dawn.
"Savaje," it moaned, "not, not yet. Not yet. You haven't tasted the light."
So the fire pulled its tips up to its tongue, and searched over the topography of the bumps, asking that the chessboard pieces might relinquish to each other some of their motives. But to no avail.
"You know, Durer said that crap about being able to make infinite artworks. If you had access to the forms."
So spoke the Knight to the Queen.
And the Queen yielded back, with a look of insult across her shining face. "Sire! How silly!"
Carressing her locks, the black King approached. "Queen, I know you are powerful, but you are just possessed. I am the one that really matters."
"Oh, I feared it so!" shivered the white Queen. "But all will be renewed at dawn."
Hearing this discourse, the fire shook its head. "No, no, no. This is all wrong. It can't be this complicated. I eschew this brittle, this... "
But then came the water, tide rushing through the chip cut between the tall walls of the sierra. And God, with a little laugh on his face, shook the world, making it rotate a little faster, so that the water and the fire might touch without one extinguishing the other.
"Mix!" cried the King. "Mix!" cried the Queen.
But to no avail.
"Mix!" cried Savaje... and she looked at the sun as it rose to illuminate the lock between the two, and knew suddenly that the impossible had occurred.
"Oh yes, I always knew it was so," she whispered. "Always always always knew."
Paint me close to the forms... yeh, I said, paint me, pain me, pain me on!!!
Paint me close, you hounds.... Paint me close, with the daffodils and strangers.
I breathe fire when I sleep, and in the dawn wipe away the ashes
Crusty lips, dried up from sacred drool that's slipped off my face.
Paint me, paint me, paint me.... Anoint me
I wrote Ro in a fever, same like the dream of Miami
I sail onward with a look of awkward pink on my face
The pink of pavonis, that it brandishes before the white swan
Paint me, or indict me--it's all the same to me now
The silly black creatures, still cook us all our feasts
The veal is so tender, and so is the lamb
The prey may learn to harvest the art of exploitation
And create seven wishes, to kill you, with pity--poor thing
You learned not your lessons
And forgot to brandish the whip, whose crack
I make less lonely
Between the cheeks of my whimpers.