How can fire undo stone?

"I wanted to see you again, touch you, know who you were, see if I would find you identical with the ideal image of you which had remained with me and perhaps shatter my dream with the aid of reality."

                    Victor Hugo - The Hunchback of Notre Dame

History will live on in the blackened stone, 

with breath on pleading breath, with all the prayers

raised by the people looking to atone

for each small sin. They built up hope in layers, 

in breath on pleading breath, in all the prayers

lining the walls, the smoke from candles lit

for each small sin built up their hope. In layers

of centuries lost pilgrims came to sit, 

lining the walls. The smoke from candles lit

became the most pleasing of offerings

to centuries lost. 

                                Pilgrims came to sit

among the statues of the saints and kings,

became the most pleasing of offerings. 

How many feet have shuffled down this aisle

among the statues of the saints and kings? 

We listened to the bells chime for a while, 

on tired feet we shuffled down the aisle

to light our own candles. For some relief

we listened to the bells chime; for a while

we bowed our heads to pray, heavy with grief. 

We lit our own candles for some relief

and sat and watched, hypnotised by the fire.

We bow our heads today, heavy with grief, 

but one day we will gaze up and aspire. 

We sit and watch, hypnotised by the fire;

history will live on in the blackened stone, 

and one day we will gaze upon a spire

raised by the people looking to atone.

© John Newson

Notre-Dame fire: Paris surveys aftermath of cathedral blaze

John has a wide variety of interests, ranging from architecture to zoology, and a corresponding inability to focus on any single task. He writes to achieve such focus.

Extinction Rebellion

(Image, courtesy of S.O. Fasrus)


Does anyone recall the distant thrill of hope? 

The cries of the city echo the spill of hope. 

It is all too easy to slip from the tightrope;

another bottle dropped on the landfill of hope. 

A politician lies, spews out the same old trope. 

Only the most selfish can boast the skill of hope. 

Comforts and futures clash in a kaleidoscope

full of hypocrisies — a crass windmill of hope. 

Everybody dances when they run out of rope

so march with all the marchers up the hill of hope. 

I thank the Lord that I was born a misanthrope —

humanity always adapts to kill off hope. 

I have nothing new son, no other way to cope;

listen to the birdsong, pretend there's still some hope.

© John Newson

Extinction Rebellion climate protest

John has a wide variety of interests, ranging from architecture to zoology, and a corresponding inability to focus on any single task. He writes to achieve such focus.