On one of those loose London nights
Just one year to 1666,
Grenfell Tower burst out with rage,
Puking heated flames and satanic shards of fire.
A burning concrete box,
It stood between greened and scorched pastures -
A lone candle with weeping tallow donning remarkable inferno.
The world stood and watched in one callous circuit,
A Thornfield of hurried death,
When Grenfell Tower remained calm, nursing blackened winds
And remaining thereafter, a charred monument of London.
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