Chilly,
The icecube does freeze.
It stings like the many thousands of bees.
Oh how it burns thine hand of mine,
An end to this pain I must certainly find.
Like a whip it cracks,
And thy hand begins to flush.
Save me from this icecube,
These screams I cannot hush.
Now thine icecube begins to melt,
And left in it's place is a reddened welt.
I'd rather die than hold thine ice,
For I fear that its pain I cannot suffice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem