I dream of fire, of smoke and ember rugs.

My arms are bound, my legs are ash and blood.

The cries of the people roar with the flames,

And when I wake I shake off fear and sweat.

In the morn, I brush the flames from my hair

From the shower so hot the dream returned;

The droplets burn my shoulders, yet they lay

Untouched by me. Not real, I tell myself.

So when I walk to school I can ignore

The cries of the people, the stares and smirks

Of those who take their pleasure from my pain.

Their hatred is their offense against me.

My life is a walking battle, therefore

My armor is thin, my arms are heavy;

I must rely only on my magic—

The fires that burn in my bones and blood.

In my defense, in its use, I become

The one who burns herself at the stake.

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