the gothic spires of Notre Dame
spill gargoyles to the streets below
the hellfire paints them in its glow
stark halos for the newly damned
will Quasimodo’s bell ring true
scorched by the hungry orange flames
it groans as it resists their aims
bronze skirt now takes a reddish hue
an army of old bishop ghosts
stands guard upon the windowsills
their ancient breath preserves and chills
the stained-glass angels and their hosts
and Esmeralda, you’d have guessed
still so defiant and so proud
observes, arms folded, head unbowed
bears witness for the dispossessed
Author notes: image from GreatBigCanvas.com lc 16
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