Flames had once covered every thing, the entire
space of the floor,
with cooking gas at a cylinder exploding burning
up to the door
and now this ruin consists out of bricks and wire
sheltering the poor,
at a copse of blue gum trees, a place of mourning,
at a big moor;
in my mind I can see that great exploding fire
at the trapdoor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem