In the long dark months after the collapse, I wrote this. The “pit” as it was called, burned not for days, but for months. Till the beginning of December—and everyday, there was smoke and dust, and the smell.
--One word has been editted—at first the totals were thought to be higher, and five (thousand) has been corrected to 3 (thousand).
I am nothing more than star dust.
Long, I held myself to be,
Just, collected, the scattered dust,
from some past eternity
How random --how beautiful
Majesty, in such a simple form
humbled and at the same time, blessed,
From such stuff to be born.
But these days the dust I breathe
The dust I have become,
Is the dust of three thousand souls
And more, in me, as one
My city is a charnel house.
It sears me to the core
Now I am the dust of human souls
Of stardust, I am no more.