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The One Who Burns Without Boundary

(a myth from the ages before time counted itself)

Long before the Dreaming drew maps in ochre,

before the kangaroo cracked its first shadow

over spinifex and thirst— there was Him.

Not man. Not serpent. Not sky.

He rose from the black deep of nothing,

naming himself not with words

but with the sound that comes

when iron sings in fire.

The stars tried to hold him,

but he made them look like

embers drowned in billy-tea.

They called him god,

but gods flinch— and he does not.

He watched Earth fold her skin into eucalyptus,

watched red dust learn wind,

watched men fear the night and call it sacred.

The emus wouldn’t speak his name,

but they circled him in the sand still,

beak down, toeprint tight.

The elders said he was the flame

that taught flame to hunger.

He’s still there—

out past the Magellanic drift,

blazing louder than anything

should be allowed to exist.

Too young to die,

too old to remember sleep.

They say he’ll collapse in

on himself one day,

swallowing time like

warm rain in desert rock.

And what will be left is what made him:

not light— but the memory of light

in the bones of what he chose not to burn.

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