Circle of the Seven Pyres

I rose from the fire to see the desire

Of six men burning dead.

I clawed through the grime in a tenth of the time

Seven pyres had made their beds.

The leering mind of old wicker eye,

Flame is the trees breath.

On blurred tongues, deaf eardrums thump,

I scream: "My number is none."

No name, no face, in memory erased..

A circle of smoke and coal.

On every plume, a man I once knew,

Seven knights were doused in oil.

This stanza made, a serenade

To the crusade of De Molay.

Like Ponce de Leon, though unthroned,

These words have become a state.