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 856-year-old icon at the city’s center
now stands damaged,
ashes covering icons of hope.