For the fame and profit, selfish, Much flame had been still collapsed… And the fiddler of the Flemish, Caught me with his look at once. His fiddle-stick become quite charred, His skull-cap – of dying flame, And, inquisitive and steady, Looks at me this little old man. There is nobody who knows Why does smoke our world: Whether fire eats us always, Whether we consume it, hot. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001