The lights are dimmed in the city once more.
Dark shadows, dark streets, dark mindlessness.
It’s wake bathes all in black. Forlorn and desperate
they wander, silent, down the avenues and boulevards.
Food uneaten, music unheard, the game un-finished.
Through the gardens, along the river, under the bridges.
And the bells are cracked and silent.
The ringed tower, begs for mercy, yet stands triumphant.
Tortured voices from Lachaise cry, ‘no more, no more.’
Blood and tears on the Rue flow crimson, then congeals
in the cold night air, beneath a November sky.
John A. Brennan
Long Island, New York. USA
Donation made to Secours Populaire Francais