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~And it's sad when they sing and hollow ears listen
Of smoking black roses on the streets of Belfast
And so say you lovers from under the flowers:
"Every foot of this world needs an inch
Of Belfast."~
~~Bernard Taupin & Elton John

"The rebuilding's coming along neatly, Chief." The Commissioner leaned heavily on the Chief's arm as they stepped around and over the debris littering the ground. Tears welled in the Commissioner's eyes at the sight of the Cosmici in ruins--her grandmother had designed that great building, and her mother had stained the glass cased in its windows. On a sunny day, you could stand in the centre of the Chamber of Hopes under the vast frescoed dome and be bathed in a light as bright and white as the smile of God even though there wasn't a single uncoloured pane in the building. A whisper from the Dias was audiable in the deepest recesses of the Chamber of Hopes; as a young girl, the Commissioner had sung from that Dias the songs that heralded Dawn. She could still hear the Solarias ringing in the thick summer air. To hide her tears, the Commissioner ducked her head under the pretense of watching her footing. The first saline drop struck a mostly-intact, dust-laden fragment of a fresco. The tear slid, cleaning a trail down the face of the first Hope, accumulating clay dust as it rolled until, coming to rest at Dona Esperanza's feet, it looked like a drop of blood.

Out of deference to the Commisioner's grief, the Chief said nothing. Nothing he could say would dispell the Cosmici's ghost from her sight. He knew this because there were no words that would dispell it from his. Nothing was harder than not rebuilding the new Cosmici in the image of its predicessor. As an architect, he loved the domes and halls of the old Cosmici like he loved the rounded figure of his wife. Both were so perfectly formed as to seem constructed by God's own Hand, both firm and forgiving, and in the presence of both, a man could drop his defenses and simply be at peace. Earthquakes had rocked the City to its foundations, but not a flake of egg-tempera had fallen from the ceiling of the Chamber of Hopes. Fires had cindered the nearby buildings, but in the Chamber of Dreams where the Solstice Lunarias were sung, the temperature of a winter night had never risen. For as long as the Chief could remember, floods had never lapped the steps of the Cosmici, and wind had never done more than dance through the holes in the Spire of Song. For as long as he could remember, the Cosmici had been the immovable centre of the City's life. And now, here it was lying in pieces at his feet, ruined not by any act of nature but by Citizens--Citizens!--who were supposed to be its protectors. Blood clouded the Chief's vision as he fought down rage. A single sanguine drop fell from his clenched fist and struck a strangely clear and intact piece of fresco. The drop slid, darkening a trail down the face of the first Defender of Hope, pushing clay dust as it rolled until, coming to rest at Signore Augusto's feet, it had dried, an embossed protest.

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3-14-01
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