The very chorus of the sky must die
When the strongest sound is heard
That ever was since Calvary
And the single moan of pain
Was wrenched from erstwhile God
Dangling from the spoken word
The Commandments are shattered indeed
When none are left to command
Nor matters it
Where the sparrow falls
When pierced by the arrows that
Spell the end of man
And only God is left to see
But no, not Da Vinci
Nor Rodin, in the clearest moment
Could capture quite the true extent
Of the rent in the fabric of life.
The nearest that one might portray
The ending of the day in fiery
Night is: Portrait,
Lack even the wit to imagine it
The instant death is commonplace.
The face that cares not for its absence
The breath that isn't too concerned
With where its wayward atoms
Shall reign unchallenged by the past
Obligation to express
Often passing tenderness.
In Moscow two million
In Manhattan four
In total, some billion or three lost
The chance to observe the moment of passion,
The cessation of those who remain is the chore.
To dream of the misery
As it looks down upon the traces of those who have died
And faces the pride
That has blinded our eyes
From the sight of the ones who stood by our side
But are gone.