I cannot put the glory into a poem. The Kyiv Chamber Choir sings “In Thy Kingdom”, their voices resonating, swelling in what I picture as a beautiful cathedral. How they cannot make this beauty now. How they are scattered and the church is a shell where the music cannot carom off its walls but its memory flies into the atmosphere as a prayer. Dissipates. How the music has to be inner now and cling to the walls of terror to be planted as seed to be heard as silent lament to mimic the blasphemous vibrations of bombs flinging their hopes to smithereens. The corner of the tattered bridal veil lifts with the indifferent breeze. Reverberates.