Edge up, till the hair on my knuckles burns and my eyes water. Look through the shimmer. I can see them playing in the flames, white and utterly pure: the salamanders.
Burning. Tell Dido to put her matches away and make the beds; Tell Orestes and Elektra it was all a regretable misfortune, and dinner is at six; Danish princes may as well shake hands all round with their Wittenberg friends, and call off their late-night meetings. We all have something better to think about.
Salamanders playing, white hot, in the fire.