• Near a delta of molten iron, a little child looks
    Towards the shifting solace of the molten, metallic brooks
    Silently he watches the radiant flames fervor
    Flagrant with their movements, caustic in their murmur

    The warmth was so inviting, the glow was rich and sweet
    Almost then did he forget the death he’d surely meet
    Upon the shore of pyroclastic, near the ignescent ebb and flow
    Why he stayed, so entranced, he would never know

    Like a moth, drawn to the flame
    Ab igne ignem