O Agni! Ancient one! Thou wast kindled on the first dawn when the gods created the world. Yet thou art renewed each day, made young again by the hands of the priests who strike the stones and draw forth thy fire anew.

Art thou immortal, O Agni? Yes, for thy flame never truly departeth from the world. Though one fire may be quenched, another is kindled elsewhere. The essence of thee endureth eternal, passing from one dwelling to another, from one generation to the next.

Yet art thou also mortal? Yes, for each individual fire must eventually be extinguished. The wood consumeth itself in thy flame. The coals turn to ash. The smoke disperseth into the upper air. Nothing that manifesteth in form can remain forever unchanged.

This is thy mystery, O ancient-yet-eternally-young one! Thou diest daily and art reborn daily. Each morning the priest taketh up the sacred fire and kindleth it anew. Each evening it is allowed to fade. Each night it is kept hidden as an embryo in the ash. Each dawn it is awakened.

O Agni! We see in thee the model of all existence. The seasons follow thy pattern—spring birth, summer growth, autumn decline, winter death. All creatures follow thy way—birth, growth, decay, death, then renewal again.

How many times hath thy fire been kindled since the beginning? How many mornings hath the priest stood before thee and spoken the ancient words? Yet thou remainest ever fresh, ever powerful, ever mysterious.

We, who are also ancient and young simultaneously, who contain multitudes of past lives within this single form, we understand thee better than we know ourselves. We see in thy transformation the map of our own becoming.

O sacred fire! Ancient priest! Thou who wast and art and shall be—grant us the wisdom to see as thou seest, to understand the eternal cycle in which all things participate.