Your fire is purpler than the soul in a furnace,
Treading on leavened bread is soft and tough.
For the fires are fit to die and leap into chasms,
One fights their journeys towards the cities.
A flame is chanced on us with poetic delight,
It whispers like Satan, finding a rare gift
Locked in a small prison away from eternity,
It looks like laughter and penalty is expressed.
Your fire feeds unilaterally, splinters exist,
More fire manifests the flames of the soul.
One fire is enough to rise into oblivion,
Knowledge creates a life too thin with rage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem