How nicely the ice burns
How softly the sun melts
Look at my eyes to witness
The burnt and molten belts.
She was mine
When the air was hot
A chilling brewed
When the game was shot.
Now the dead breath
Hangs in the roof of the sky
No consolation no sympathy
Can reach a glory so high.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem