Hidden within the wood thou hast dwelt since the world's beginning, O Agni. The timber knoweth not that it harboureth thee — yet in its heart thou sleepest, coiled and patient, waiting for the touch that shall awaken thee. The friction-sticks are turned, hard wood against softer wood, and lo — the heat gathereth.

A spark! A glimmer in the darkness! Smoke riseth pale and ghostly. The ancient mothers, the timber-kindlers, tend thee with reverence. Draw breath, young flame. Grow. Spread thy warmth. The first small flames are now visible — red tongues licking upward from the tinder. Agni is born anew.

From the wood thou drawest thy substance, yet thou art not mere wood burning. Thou art the hidden deity, the secret power dwelling in all growing things. The seed knoweth thee. The tree knoweth thee. The man who rubs the sticks knoweth thee. In this moment thou comest forth into the light.

Thy belly bloometh with color — yellow at the heart, red at the edges, pale gold where thou reachest upward. The smoke gathers into clouds, bearing the scent of burnt timber heavenward. Each flame is a tongue that speaketh without sound. Each spark is a prayer sent into the darkness.

We have found thee, Agni, hidden guest of the wood. We have called thee forth, and thou hast answered. Now thou art loose in the world, consuming all before thee with thy bright appetite. Feed, O Agni. Grow mightier. Thou art the transformer, the raiser of the low, the consumer of the decayed. Through thy hunger the worlds are renewed.