I was born before your time, In temples lost and soaked in brine. I slept beneath volcano’s breath, And wake when called to bring you death. I do not sleep, though I consume, I leave behind both ash and gloom. I kiss the pig and cleanse the bone, Yet have no lips, no flesh, no throne. I crackle truth when lies are told, I fear the dark, but loathe the cold. I dance in stillness, rage in calm, I warm your hands, then scorch your palm. I’ve turned to smoke a thousand kings, And whispered secrets through the wings Of gods who fed me with delight— Who summoned me to light the night. I am the guest who leaves no plate, The final course. The end. The fate.