Catch a bunch of bad children and lock them in a cage. Forced into cruel labor, they toil without a wage. A big hound breaks the cage bars, as cannons set them free. Butterflies and marigolds eat fruit from the great tree. Inside a nest they built their own heaven, banded together a family of seven.
In the house are seven people, living in a poor village. Stonewalled by an overlord, food and drink cruelly pillaged. Withered trees will bear no fruit, the plants need fertilizer. Fruits fell spoiled unto the ground, splashed juice upon white mica. The family ate one of their own, now there's six inside the home.
In the house there hid six people, camping in a ruined yard. Unresponsive sleeps the hound, a broken mirror harms the bird. Flowers cannot flutter, dead trees cannot be straighter. The butterfly left home only to meet throngs of cicada. The big bug scoffed the little bug down. Now there are five left inside the home.
In the house there slept five people, lying all day at home. An angel came to visit one night, singing triumphant poems. Melodic as a dream of plenty both to eat and wear. Everything is fixed now, closing eyes they have no fear. Whatever you do, do not awaken — forget those days of past mistaken.