Fire At Notre Dame

Although the fire had turned to smoke the old poet’s lips were still. . The architectural trinity . in the City of Lights lies wounded, . the greatest roof in Paris has succumbed. Words could not express what tears conveyed, as he sat across from me in a reverent posture. . Sacred timbers holding back . the corrupted prayers of hypocrites, . burned with the fires of hell. As a young man, he had fallen in love with her beauty during his first summer in Paris. . The 800-year-old icon at city’s center . now stands damaged, . ashes covering icons of hope. The poet nodded affirmation to comments made, but could not speak. . The lady’s ambiance is gone . as secular light casts . unfiltered rays upon her altar. The poet to my left wept as our leader guided the conversation. . The man on the TV said there are . no trees in France large enough . to replace the mighty beams. All the poets’ words that fateful evening sounded unpoetic to me. . The President stood before the mighty walls . and broadcast . words of courage and renewal. The next day I see pictures of people gathered in the streets. . She may be wounded by exhausted wires, . but restoration . knocks on her great oak doors.