By nightfall the skyline erupts into flames
          as a heavy sun burns through the ground.

          Dried flower heads are set
          afire in a stone basin.

Wavering in the fiery horizon, an obsidian human
          silhouette contorts in its ancient meditative stance.

          Their petals coil in flame,
          releasing incense.

Silence has settled over the earth like soft loess,
          yet the fire of the backlit figure hums like a tanpura.

          A strand of smoke snakes high;
          the pyre diminishes.

And as the last embers of the sun perish,
          that shadow smelts into the wrought iron sky.

          Ashes heap in the bowl;
          flowers fill the night.