Those thought dead shall rise,
Bleed into the sun;
For the smoke from fire
Is never higher
Than when it is thought done.
Alight paths serve as guide
To sides not yet roamed.
Not a flip of coin, roll of dice,
Nor hand dealt thrice
Can be forever won.
Winners' faces ashed in fright,
A depleted greed from bone.
Other villagers aspire
As those ghosts tire
Of set fires to homes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
bleed in to the sun, good work..