The bustle,
The bristle,
Many jeans, blue sky
The Taxis,
Yellow seams
Knitting
The city inside
A memory,
A vision,
Of a faraway land
Here now,
Feeling strongly
As death in a hand
A corner
Of horror
Cries from the tomb
I heard
Her say
Babies died in wombs
Chaos, heroes
Intimate revulsion
Try
Try again
No anger, but sinking emotion
The demons
All saints
Battled till the death
This place
Hallowed yard
Did we meet the test?
No laughter
no matter
We're still seeking the lost
Their faces
Etched smiles
Remain hanging on the cross
The weight
Our burden?
Who’s allowed to carry it now?
Closed eyes
Tears sting
I approach the grave
And
bow.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
The bustle,
The bristle,
Many jeans, blue sky
The Taxis,
Yellow seams
Knitting
The city inside
A memory,
A vision,
Of a faraway land
Here now,
Feeling strongly
As death in a hand
A corner
Of horror
Cries from the tomb
I heard
Her say
Babies died in wombs
Chaos, heroes
Intimate revulsion
Try
Try again
No anger, but sinking emotion
The demons
All saints
Battled till the death
This place
Hallowed yard
Did we meet the test?
No laughter
no matter
We're still seeking the lost
Their faces
Etched smiles
Remain hanging on the cross
The weight
Our burden?
Who’s allowed to carry it now?
Closed eyes
Tears sting
I approach the grave
And
bow.
I travelled to NYC 10 years after September 11 terrorists attack on my homeland. I felt the graves, I felt the wounds, I felt a sacred place of anguish. I had to write.