When Notre Dame burned,
the hoses could not reach its towers.
The watching people breathed in lead
with its yellow smoke.
And lead stood on the chests
of artists and lovers.

When Notre Dame burned,
hoses could not touch its towers
but people kept on, kept on
writing their music and songs.
Hymns or requiem mass.
Operatic hate or gangster rap.

And after the fires out
more visitors will come
to see the ruin
than the wonder that was before.

The vaulted ceilings, the flying buttresses
the pointed arches pointing to
a new and improved Jerusalem.

Someday we will live
in a house that God built
and behold the glorious light.
Walls made only out of glass
and shaken but not broken
by our wow.