The house is filled with chariots of fire.
Young steeds of fire have arrived.
On the rug, a giant rod of fire.
Above us, so white woolly clouds
into a small pillow, a tongue of fire.
Only then did a treetop ascend over us.
A huge wave, a pure cloud as white as a sheet, of fire.
Afterwards, we sat down, my wife, to a feast of fire.
On the plate, like Adam and Eve
we kindled, together, thrilled,
a small pillar, a delicate one, of fire.