The dry giant’s belly is inviting. Excitedly clamber inside, the culmination of a dedicated life: returning to Mother Earth’s womb, bringing forth the Summer.
It’s an honour.
Below, your people. Gowns embroidered, floral crowns, everlasting posies (giggling, recalling sister’s quip: STRAWFLOWER BACKWARDS HAS WOLFWARTS IN IT!) singing hymns, praising you.
The warmth of love rises with the flames, your family’s shadows dance, momentarily twisted, a corrupt puppet show.
“OUR SON!” they cry.
“YES” you scream as light ignites you “I AM THE SUN!”