Smoke rolls in like mourning veils,
Darkening skies with ashen tales,
Chimneys weep their final breath—
A lullaby composed by death.

The steeple cracks, its bell unswung,
No choir left to sing the young.
Shutters blink with embered eyes,
As silence swallows fleeing cries.

The cobbled streets, once full of cheer,
Now echo steps of smoke and fear.
Shadows dance in orange bloom,
Choking life in every room.

A cradle scorched, a picture charred,
A garden turned to blackened yard.
Hope melts down in rivulets,
Carried where the flame forgets.

Yet through the ash, a whisper stirs—
A child’s hand, the past recurs.
For even towns that blaze and fall
Leave ghost-lights glowing in their call.

The burning town may fade from maps,
But hearts still beat in fire’s gaps.
And from the soot, if skies allow,
A phoenix dreams—rebirth, somehow.