Burning

They take it into their arms,
passionately –
as they squeeze out its last warm
breath of life
their tongues spray high '
blood, golden-red -
there is no escape
for the slender wooden frame,
can you hear it aching?
The agony of an old friend,
slaughtered by the greedy beast -
helpless we watch the Angel’s souls flee
back into heaven,
just before the tower falls,
a last time the dying bell calls,
its voice choked
by maroon smoke,
and after the ferocious meal,
from the ashes rising
an iron cross, upright and tall,
standing on the shattered tower,
a reminder of short-lived power

Sydney Krivenko 2008 All rights reserved