There is nothing so strange as the death of art
by flames fanned with the cold of winter
as history’s embers fall into the littered street
Livid greens and dying yellows fade to throbbing red;
No smoke is in our lungs, the air is rushing elsewhere
and we wait, we wait as stained glass shatters—
The air is taut with whispers on sticky tongues: “Will it fall?
Will there be nothing tomorrow but some ash and a bell?”
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