Fire slips,
the dark of night,
as we stand,
held so tight,
Each slender flame,
licks a darkened sky,
pointing to the stars,
Angels twinkling on high,
Round and Round,
each step,
crackling beneath
the winds keen whip,
hold your breath,
as the cinders drip,
Now left standing,
a cold dark pit
- The Black Rose
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem