The shadow of a man
is his own personal devil.
Blackened, charred, slanted, clinging
to his heels.
A parasitic smoke
from the fire of life,
which burns within a man.
The flames of glory
that he churns
whip in blue, breathe in gold
and pulse in white,
and are pure in glow:
emitting no ashes.
But sadistic flames of red
rip furiously through the system
tearing, crashing, razing
the harmony.
Conceiving the ash and delivering
the shadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem