Dawn’s golden womb was tainted –
Two citadels of concrete buckled.
People under siege
From ten blocks off;
A hundred stories to tell
Of a hundred stories to fall,
But none shall live to tell that story;
All were crushed as a bubble is popped.
Now comes the methane after-fires,
On a lake of boiling kerosene
The final monolith thundering down
Below the rubble, a crescendo of screams …
Three thousand dead, two thousand imprisoned,
Hearts in holes, eyes closed to pain
Minds numbed in lonely office-cells.
And still the fires come,
With a sweet-meat char of flesh in the air,
Casting moribund shadows in the plaster dusk,
Still the fires come.