a small poem

Discussion in 'General Industry Related Topics' started by thelastone, Nov 14, 2001.

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  1. Bill Furniture

    Bill Furniture Flounder

  2. thelastone


    As a lurker I rarely post and when I do, its usually harmless fun or something pertinent to the hobby.
    I also don't like to post anything relating to the Sept 11 incident, there are just too many high flying emotions, and politics.

    However there are always exceptions to the rule and this will be one of them.

    This small poem I received from a friend of mine. I'd like to share it with whoever wants to read it. It was dedicated to those who lost friends and loved ones on that fateful day. Hopefully it will be some small comfort.


    Two thousand one, nine eleven
    Five thousand plus arrive in heaven
    As they pass through the gate,
    Thousands more appear in wait

    A bearded man with stovepipe hat
    Steps forward saying, "Lets sit, lets chat"
    They settle down in seats of clouds
    A man named Martin shouts out proud
    "I have a dream!" and once he did
    The Newcomer said, "Your dream still lives."

    Groups of soldiers in blue and gray
    Others in khaki, and green then say
    "We're from Bull Run, Yorktown, the Maine"
    The Newcomer said, "You died not in vain."

    From a man on sticks one could hear
    "The only thing we have to fear. . .
    The Newcomer said, "We know the rest,
    Trust us sir, we've passed that test."

    "Courage doesn't hide in caves
    You can't bury freedom, in a grave,"
    The Newcomers had heard this voice before
    A distinct Yankees twang from Hyannisport shores.

    A silence fell within the mist
    Somehow the Newcomer knew that this
    Meant time had come for her to say
    What was in the hearts of the five thousand plus that day.

    "Back on Earth, we wrote reports,
    Watched our children play in sports
    Worked our gardens, sang our songs
    Went to church and clipped coupons
    We smiled, we laughed, we cried, we fought
    Unlike you, great we're not"

    The tall man in the stovepipe hat
    Stood and said, "Don't talk like that!
    Look at your country, look and see
    You died for freedom, just like me."

    Then, before them all appeared a scene
    Of rubbled streets and twisted beams
    Death, destruction, smoke and dust
    And people working just 'cause they must
    Hauling ash, lifting stones,
    Knee deep in hell, but not alone

    "Look! Blackman, Whiteman, Brownman, Yellowman
    Side by side helping their fellow man!"
    So said Martin, as he watched the scene
    "Even from nightmares, can be born a dream."
    Down below three firemen raised
    The colors high into ashen haze
    The soldiers above had seen it before
    On Iwo Jima back in '44

    The man on sticks studied everything closely
    Then shared his perceptions on what he saw mostly
    "I see pain, I see tears,
    I see sorrow - but I don't see fear."

    "You left behind husbands and wives
    Daughters and sons and so many lives
    Are suffering now because of this wrong
    But look very closely. You're not really gone.
    All of those people, even those who've never met you
    All of their lives, they'll never forget you
    Don't you see what has happened?
    Don't you see what you've done?
    You've brought them together, together as one."

    With that the man in the stovepipe hat said
    "Take my hand," and from there he led
    Five thousand plus heroes, Newcomers to heaven
    On this day, two thousand one, nine eleven