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.