It was a dreary winter day;
 The world was cold, monotone gray.
 But then, I caught a hint of heat:
 Felt on my face, not on my feet.

A furnace burned in a dark place.
 I felt it flush my frigid face --
 Frigid once, but not any more
 I stood inside that foundry's door. 

The orange glow danced on my face.
 It must have shown demon's disgrace.
 Like a poor creature lit on fire,
 Or the living dead on a pyre.

Cold as the day and my feet were,
 I heard a voice - just a whisper. 
 "You must flee now, or you'll jump in,
 and they'll not find a fleck of shin."