The world burns

The world burns.

The man, on the doorstep to his house,

– one hand in his pocket –

– the other holding a cup of tea –

watches the writhing flames

dance in the pale segment

of grey dawn.

The world has been burning,

day and night,

for thirty years now.

There seems to be no end to it.

The inky carapace of clouds

has not yet been breached,

the sun deemed dead,

the moon, gone.

The world burns,

and the man, in the cool breeze,

– his jacket flaps to an unknown beat –

ticks off another day in his mental calendar

– the exact number him only knows –

until the end of the fire.