We are in the house.
The house is engulfed in flames.
Our master has fired commands from his pistol
to douse the flames.
The flames are unforgiving and rip through the
structure as if it were blithesome horses
felicitated by onlookers, whilst performing
crowd pleasing gaits through stadia on a summer's
afternoon.
The confined indigeni are finally set free.
The surviving scofflaws will surely recover
their loses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem