A match that's spent. A failed attempt.
I must find wood that's drier.
A puff of smoke. A flicker weak.
A flash! A flare! A fire!
The infant flames seem hesitant,
Unsure of what to do.
Then, shed their childhood innocence
And roar to heights anew.
Strange shadows dance around my feet
And sneak amongst the trees.
A sudden spark streaks to'rd the sky
Then settles near my knees.
Grey wisps of smoke curl round my head
Then fade into the night.
The pulsing coals, in brilliant red,
Are cubes of fierce delight.
The crackling logs disturb the night
With sudden sharp reply
To licking tongues of orange and red
That 'luminate the sky.
Then, are consumed by famished flames
That surge along their length,
Devouring in that searing heat
And sapping of their strength.
Soon, flames give way to glowing coals
That lie in reddened mass.
Then, as a yawn of sleep creeps o'er,
The coals are turned to ash.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem