S. Worthen | Weblog

The burn was wedged into its depths.
In density and air, the raging caught,
wood to ash, inheritance to dream.

A swarm of firefighters - no foam,
but water, pouring rivers - but not
drowning flame's heart, fatal gleam.

Come the morning, the pyre is doused.
Leaving blooms, the mourners, distraught,
corpseless, render their esteem.


All thanks to tsutanai for updates about the gate's news, for the observation about foam, and for wondering about how often there is mass mourning when there is no body. I would say I'm on a roll with current affairs poetry, but technically there is more recent news about the burning than that it happened at all.