There is a tree in front of the house.

I may have burned it down, but don’t blame me for it.

Look at the house’s fresh white walls

See how the paint never seems to decay, no matter how hard the rain beats and the thunder cries.

Walk around on the too-tightly tailored grass, between the green where the children roll around, laughing under the afternoon sun,

Walk around, catch the smell of wet wood coming from the attic

I may have burned it down, but don’t blame me for it. 

Push the door and enter, neatly place your shoes by the entrance, you don’t want to stain the carpet. 

Take a glance at the fine coloured porcelain animals in the cabinets, brought back after a delightful trip to Asia,

Shift the geometrical piles of school books off the coffee table and have a cup of tea 

Put one or two spoons of sugar,

Ignore the shards of broken china in the corner, the missing vase, the limping chair.

I may have burned it down, but don’t blame me for it. 

Sip on the tea as you hear about the children’s newest accomplishments. 

How the oldest was made captain of their soccer team, or how the youngest raised money for a new swing set at the neighborhood park. 

Don’t ask about the middle child. 

Don’t ask what kind of doctor they’re seeing. 

Stop by the kitchen, admire the new red silk tablecloth, why wonder about the matching stain at its corner?

Take a whiff of the leg of lamb roasting in the oven,

Enjoy how the heat warms and wraps the entire room. 

But once you feel a different kind of fire rising, run upstairs. 

Find yourself rushing, taking the steps two by two going as fast as possible, yet desperately avoiding those that wince. 

I may have burned it down, but don’t blame me for it. 

Walk past the family pictures in golden frames, with comically wide smiles staring at the camera. 

Lock yourself inside a fully finely furnished bedroom and lay on the floor. 

Hear the lightning striking beneath. 

Put your hands on your ears and hope the humming will chase them away. 

There is a tree in front of the house,

That tree guards a smoke that blurs and chokes a perfect picture

The blood that drips through the ceiling’s wooden boards, 

Casts a shadow on everything you don’t want to see. 

Push the door, climb the stairs and beg to run away

Only to find yourself trapped between ghostly walls. 

Just thick enough to drown out the cries. 

There is a tree in front of the house. 

And I may have burned it down but do not blame me for it. 

Wait until I’ve burned the entire house.