A flame is in my blood
burning dry life, to the bone.
I do not sing of stone,
now, I sing of wood.
It is light and coarse:
made of a single spar,
the oaks deep heart,
and the fishermans oar.
Drive them deep, the piles:
hammer them in tight,
around wooden Paradise,
where everything is light.
Another translation of the same poem:
"The flame annihilates"
The flame annihilates
My withered life,
Now it isn't stone
I sing, but wood.
It is light and rough;
From a single piece come
The heart of the oak
And the fisherman's oars.
Drive the pilings tighter.
Pound, you hammers,
About the wooden paradise
Where things are so much easier.
