This poem is told in the point of view of Thranduil, the great Elvenking of Mirkwood. During the War of the Last Alliance, he had an unfortunate encounter with "serpents of the North" and leaves him permanently scarred for life. Here he talks about what fire is to him.
Fearsome, Fascinating Fire
A colossal, formless yet imposing figure
That has an intoxicating, smoky breath that is so familiar
Keeps his heinous head high, haughty
His coat a violent swirl of colours, manifesting all his glory
In a dangerous mood, unapproachable
Savage urges to conquer that are uncontrollable
Contempt is unveiled with a pair of eyes that are ablaze
His fearsome features blurred by the haze
A throb of excruciating pain channels in you
At his touch as scorching hot as burning irons
At the same time, there's a warmth in you heart, too
It hurts more than the roar of an infuriated lion
He moves slowly, careful with each step he takes
Like a predator stalking its prey that can't escape
Even with all the desperate moves it takes
Making it all the more terrified of its enemy with no shape
In his hands, he has chaos and fear
Promising death and destruction to things we hold dear
And soon, in the midst of all the pandemonium
Fire, never ashamed of the odium
Lowly growls, enough to make mountains tremble
Its echoes all the way to diverse places uncertain
He draws you nearer and nearer, you can't rebel
"Come to me, weary soul, let me lift your burden..."