The fire has fallen on itself,
the earth beneath my back is cold.
I could get up to build some heat,
a firm foundation still remains
in coals that glow with ghostly flames.
Yet I have been alone too long
to ever believe a midnight fire
could compensate for what is lost,
my only warmth against the frost
that I have gathered to my bed
like one in unfamiliar woods
gone out to initiate the spring.
I've had a little bit of good
I gathered to myself for wood
and if a shoulder grows too chill
I know life means me no great ill
and no one is here to get alarmed
if my cold I turn onto my warm
and my warm I turn to heat the storm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It seems to me so stoic or ''kynic''[in its real sense]- {A break for a cigarette and a red local wine-to your health Barry]]
I am not however a stoic.
I am a cynic in both the original and the derived connotation. I am all for virtue but believe man is basically selfish.