With his ash-black helmetNumbered 451,His infinite perfume of keroseneWill never go away,As once he loved to burn And now he realized potentialIn the pigeons he once ignited,As a small girl reminded him Of true human nature,Behind every book Is a life-time of thoughts,In his once-perfect world,He realized the necessityOf knowledge in his books, Now he starts to runFrom the fires of his past,Escaping the Great SalamanderWhich he once proudly wielded, After decades of burning,He begins to seebooks are not all he burned,Human passionFree thoughtCompassion and IntegrityAll of these were burnedBy the will of society,