The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,
And purple, like the blood of elderberries.
Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron.
I am drunk of its fumes.
I feel its fiery flux
Working some strange alchemy…
So that I turn aside from the goodly board,
So that I look askance upon the common cup,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem