Apr. 28, 2015

An Elegy of September 11

A unique line against the skies.
Terror reign midst desperate cries.
The plea for help, but none to save.
Thousands embrace an eerie grave.

One-hundred-fifteen stories high,
Fires rage, and people die.
Heavy smoke billows up,
As many drink of a bitter cup.

Survivors weeping in the street
The silent tone of human bleat:
Sight and sounds of painful sigh,
With certain fear in the eye.

Searching for a loved one lost,
Bound to find at any cost.
Vainly roaming to and fro,
They sit and wonder where to go.

Quiet tears hug the cheek
As unexpected havoc wreaks.
The clock of time’s fateful stroke—
An autumn’s “winter” in New York.

(c) 2001 w. sallry