I was a worm and I closed in on myself. In the grave that I was I forged my wings. Love called me, raised me to his grace. He scorched my hermit face. Your love was a light, which urged me to flight. It was a burning, sharp light. It was a star to crash my shadow. It was a sliver of light, it was a flame. I was dazzled in my crypt: I entered your halo, I put my verse on the edge of your sword, I put myself in your center: it was of fire: I used to settle in the fire house. In the fire I saw myself a worm, a butterfly, a passion, a spark with wings ... I did not know if I was burning nor if it was all the light your flare. I haven't seen myself since. I have not come to myself. I am so two that I get confused: when you call me I call you, when you call me you flare your own flank. Your love was of light: it is a sore, a wounded sun, an autophagous fire in my bed. I have consumed myself in you, in you it has been consumed my volatile course towards nothingness.