Come, wave your wings over my fire;
Wave them low, for you are cold.
Not one feather withhold;
Wage wing wars; build my red spire.
I hear those feathers whisper '...expire.'
What water does that caution hold:
Till you scale this ice-cube world,
Tomorrow's flight do not aspire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem