Phoenix didn’t rise from the ashes
Nor was Electra born from sorrow
What rose was acrid smoke and orange tongues of fire
that lit the night and engulfed hopes and dreams and future.
All that was left was a ragged black shell of what was once
a tower beaming with laughter,
bursting at the seams with life.
Lives of children, mothers, fathers, old and young
who lived each day as it came.
Those who escaped the flames of wars and persecution
and came to find shelter and peace
what have they all become?
Charcoal and DNA,genetic print of identity
memories of those who survived,
political ammunition to squabbling parties
Soon, the black skeleton that reaches the grey sky
The blot on the City’s landscape will be arrased for ever
Will Phoenix rise from the ashes?