Born from a solace pit, raging
Through the mother's womb, crawling
Inside the grit, grit
On which the seeds bloom.
Rose tall, only
To snarl, to the
Open sky, thats
Son of a birch.
Live only to graze, though
He is to be raze, by
The Blaze, of
Grace.
Son of a birch, thrown
Into the deepest ash hole, leaving
Nothing but glowing rich, of
The tender, tender gale.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem