The fire dances on my palm
It's playful, careless, free.
Although it can be dangerous,
The flames aren't cruel to me.
The fire, it will play for me
When I call to it here.
I've done it many times before
So now I do not fear.
My fingers barely feel the pain,
They're calloused, burned and charred.
Some might say "impossible"
But I don't find it hard.
I whisper to it in its tongue,
I call it out to play.
And soon the flames come bursting forth
And chase the dark away.
A/N
This poem is about Dustfinger, from the book "Inkheart" by Cornelia Funke. They are amazingly beautiful books.
