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.
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