The world whirls in its usual round,
A splendid dawn in pastels gowned.
Then pauses…shudders … and shrieks.
The Twin Towers grapple and groan,
Death borne bombers, unerring pilots,
Pierce the prideful pillars.
Terribly they tumble to the ground,
Now rubble burning hot with flesh,
Enmeshed with grisly bone and death.
Mephisto raises his fist exultant.
To God he cries: You gave me leave,
Now tell me who has won!
The Angels weep for the souls they meet,
Wandering lost in the devil's debris,
Not knowing where they're bound.
One is stern as he looks around.
Calmly he calls to the aimless souls,
Who gather under his wing.
He hears the cries – feels their sting–
And broods at the ways of men.
How will this end ? he asks of them.