by Pavel Chichikov
A multitude that does not burn, ascends,
Faces of the long forgotten dead, those bombed,
Those melted past coherence, sent
Flowing, one unceasing pika don
Children glued like flies in melted tar
Spilled from cruet boulevards cry out,
Eyes devoured by a morning star
At Hiroshima, snuffed, a candle shout
Whips of burning, massacre en mass,
Cross of street and river intersected,
Crown of thorns of incandescent glass,
Sacrifice of virgin flesh confected
Children of the dust, the dust that killed them
Rising in mysterium tremendum