My twisted flames of smoldering sinew wisps
can warm and heal, like an angel’s kind grace,
yet just the same,
I can burn with the slightest touch, like sharp thorns of a crimson rose;

Set your eyes on me, you’ll see.
The tips of my feet, dancing tenderly,
on instantaneous sparks, passion burning intense yet pure,
disappear and reappear, like gypsies allure.

As I am not but heap of ashes, at times.
And I wish him to know with what a mastery,
rekindled by his fiery persistence,
heap of ashes that I am, into scorching crimson flames, anew.