Flames boogie to send scorching air
up into rounding cloth.
Two feet find themselves firmly lodged
against a wobbly wicker floor.
Ginger leaves wave solemnly
from trees that prowl below.
Rigid road lines and dewed grass once so distinct fade
into one olive sea sitting silently, never shifting.
Shooting through fields of snow
white erodes away the blocked meadows beneath.
Higher and higher, the ashen clouds
fade as only the flickering fire remains.
The glow slowly disappears into night
and I am washed from view.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.