September Eleven.
The lives of many innocents snuffed out inside those towers
Are mourned by all that value justice, truth and love.
Little do the madmen know of how the giants will move
And how their knees will tremble as they face their final hours.
The wind that blows in from the north sings of firm resolve
Of all that value freedom and put justice to the fore
To root out the evil doers and even up the score
And make their paradise so false silently dissolve.
However long that it may take, the pain we will endure
The sacrifices we will make, the young lives brave and pure,
The innocents that meet their fate, the vengeance slow and sure,
As justice cleans this awful wound and evens up the score.
Bitter is the taste of blood, the grapes of wrath are sour,
Yet still, the world rotates fifteen degrees per hour.
David Henry. 11/10/01.
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