The dove descending breaks up the air with a flame of burning terror of witch the tongues declare
the only hope or else despair lies in choice of pyre to be redeemed from fire by fire
and every time four quartets end could I, could I, could I, point unto the other end could I, could I, could I, be waiting for the other land waiting maybe into the other land
who then devised the torment? love love is the unfamiliar name behind the hands that wove the intolerable shirt of flames which human power cannot remove we only live, only suspire consumed by either fire or fire
