Fallen

The gray ash cloud rises sadly,
In place of the silver spires,
A drab, ephemeral monument
To fallen saints,
Irish sinners most of them,
Saints today, and evermore.

The steel groans with Satan’s voice
Echoing howls of rage
As the ovens and fires of a deep, dark hell
Offer up burnt remains to the sky gods,
Father and punisher alike
Myrmidons scurry and crawl,
Scavenging amid the carrion for
The hope of resurrection
And its obverse.

The angry hermit
Abides,
Hides,
Thinking:
Vengance,
Planning,
Awaiting,
Dying.

Children of the giant,
Heroes all,
Forge their iron.


John Byrnes
17 September, 2001
6th day at Ground Zero.