Swoop in upon the fire..
hot..wings bridge the air.
To say why dance it is thus.
Still moths.. will never talk at..
Petaled leaves is to hide them....
When touch suns hot mask..
bowls of cotton winds..flutter..
Moth legs..no longer can carry..
It's fire underneath..the flower...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem