All that was left in my home was a pile of ashes, burnt corpses, 

 and a little black flame. 

Why do you burn, little flame? 

Why burn what we have built? 

For satisfaction? For pleasure? 

Or did you just want to watch it burn down. 

You were filled with anguish and despair, but why would you harbor such emotion? 

Its as if you were merely born from the misfortune of others. 

From hatred and sorrow of others. 

From the despair and envy of others 

From the unrivaled wrath of my own. 

Why burn little flame?

Why burn and leave nothing but ashes in the wake of misery and sorrow. 

Why hate little flame? 

Why be consumed by your emotions and leave nothing but ashes?

Why kill and leave nothing, but the ashes of the bodies you consumed, little flame?

Why be angered yet still harbor sympathy, little flame?

Sympathy only toward the one who cursed upon this world of your presence

that caused this outcome of my humble home. 

Why little flame, did you leave me alive without burning me into ashes with my beloved family.