How prayers that stood on tongue tips,
Carving plumes of noise, as
She, the lady of Paris, resists the dragons,
Looming like the sun at sunset, and still,
She will rise to the heavens, unlike Babel,
To prove that no man can
Vanquish Notre Dame, or decimate
The memory of pilgrims scattered all over this planet.
The first dame of Paris, like a damsel in distress
Flames crackling, bursting, rising far,
Blazing in the contemporary and a legacy
That from the powder of shelved ashes,
Will resurrect, the fallen nave.
The roofs arching above, will be restored,
For the Parisians, to cry “Hail Mary”, their palms
Held heaven-wise. While people look at a belfry,
Where a bell used to be, now vacant,
Like a fallen city without a palpitating heart.
While they see the tall tapering roofs,
Come down in a hurry; pews ablaze,
The alter charred, windows cracked in the middle,
And the spirit of her, braver than Joan
Of Arc on a stake, now covered in soot;
While a broken spire, which like
A bent raceme, becomes to
The bystanders, something to pluck,
And place inside a blue vase,
Brimming of melancholia.
