a click of a knob
a gasul oven opens
your hand does it
air filled with acetylene gas
there is no flint
to create a fire
you arrive at the scene
with a look a flicker
of a glance and you
blink, my goodness
you have just caused
a conflagration
a house burning
in a short while
below your feet
charred, this being,
this body, all the bones
turning into
ashes
no, they do not want to be reborn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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