The
danger of memory is that it never dies.
I
was ten and still remember America’s shocked face,
And
the smoke and the ash covered the skies
On
the day the towers fell from grace.
I
was ten and still remember America’s shocked face,
And
for a time the rain meant what the poets said,
On
the day the towers fell from grace
And
war and dissension wed.
And
for a time the rain meant what the poets said—
Complacent
ash falls ghostly, thickly gray,
And
war and dissension wed.
And
spectral figures loom in the smoke of dead Pompey.
Complacent
ash falls ghostly, thickly gray—
Obscuring
the memory of the past ten years
And
spectral figures loom in the ruins of dead Pompey:
The
mournful strings behind the keening of our tears.
Obscured
the memory of the past ten years—
And
this land has written on the wall:
The
mournful strings behind the keening of our tears
Still
cry defiance. Hell was paid; there was no fall.
And
this land has written on the wall,
And
the smoke and the ash that covered the skies
Still
cries defiance. Hell was paid; there was no fall:
Because
the danger of memory is that it never dies.