Fire is like a cold heat from the flames of your taste,
It eats and diverges to the haste of a teasing question.
Fire this time is an initial thought of wonderment,
But where pain lives is the sprouting of genius and intelligence.
The leaders of a ladder and age are red like the heart,
They are orange like fire, like a picture of the innocent way.
If they read and recite the questions and answers,
Then the fierce winds outside shall deliver their praise.
One side of the arguing man is a fever of fighting fire,
He really roams, he rightly drives his vehicle or truck,
To persuade the people of former times to destroy him;
Fire is like this man who dimly glances at your throat and thorax.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem