Does the soul feel the pain of the burning fire,
as its carcass turns above the flaming heat
Can it feel the breath of the chocking steam,
curling through its broken skin.
Raw flesh it shall none of
Does it hear the fire talk,
the murmer of the machine that turns it in an endless circle,
tasting the melting of its own skin.
And does it watch the remains of its physical self
being feed upon
To be gone, to be nothing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.