The Tongue of Fire burns out all mire
And purges perfectly all vile air
That befouls bestially the being entire
It is breathing that makes everything alive
When it ceases, even gods mighty die out
Just as Phoenix rises up from its ashes,
At the thunderous trumpet of the Creator
Even those long reduced to dust would resume breathing
To live forever either in bliss or misery very real
If a person believes in this creed even slightly
Could he close his eyes in peace or breathe for a brief spell
Unless, of course, he is utterly vain and counts himself an angel?
O sweet Jesus compassionate, how could you condemn flesh of your flesh?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem