On candlesticks,
following in my wake,
words follow me
beautiful and adverse.
In the pale light
of a tremulous flame
that consumes the wax
of a small candle.

I am for some,
joy in my veins
I am for others
the last shadow.
For all, I am a dream,
for some,
I am an eternal nightmare
from which they never wake up.

I am the white dove
with which some fly,
I am the white pyre
on which others burn.
For him, like honey
on the skin,
For me, white steel,
nailed to my temple.

But we all succumb the same,
dead, from the black plague
Or perhaps, white…?
Of the same death.