Don't touch, the flame will burn the fingertips.
Thrust your whole palm into the fire,
thrust it into the cool of my fur,
for I come from beyond the forests and swamps.
Once my lungs were filled with ice-cold mist,
snow crystals scraped my antlers.
Ice fields shifted. I spoke with a human voice.
What fine words, what low lines. My voice resounded
through the forest. Trees stirred, the lawn shrank.
I came closer, past the first suburbs,
the first lit houses, your home somewhere among them.
Don't touch,
the glacier's edge will stick to your nails.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem