In the bright city, bombs are breaking like flowers;
Over the houses, lamps and lanterns are drifting
Clearer than moonlight, white as Lucifer
Or drop, spilling the light into the crawling fires

Pause at the shattered window
At sudden craters, see the slums
Gathering a rose fire
Fit for a town of dreams to wear

Hear on the wind the flames' imperative
Voice, the colour of kings; the cackling bracelet
Of pubs and churches lit like a pantomime

And yet we live
Aware of this dark hill, the orchard carpeted
With cool, green apples. Only the birds are fled.