09/11/01

voices, voices
no hands of tears can reach,
save
from morning calls
to the valleys of
death:
souls so pure
as to light up the glamours of
the sky
with
brilliant sorrows,
melts so
full of
icicles:

they were
cowards,
with boxcutters and
bull-headed
cruelty,
the name of
desperation,
they killed thousands for a man
who is
about as
wise
as an ox:
shattered the
marvelous
facade, the beauteous
armour
of
our naked glory:

the angels flew down from

heaven
clothed
the children with
wings,
the adults flew upward
in pairs of
spiraling
fancy:

highways to
the
elysian fields,
heavenly breaths of
something
uniquely terrible?
so quiet
the
hierarchy of
heaven.