Wednesday, September 19, 2001 7:15 p.m. pdt
"Perhaps The Missing Were Prematurely Raptured"
A friend and I, we have talked so much,
Remember simpler times, and in memories, touch
The very fibre of our broken souls,
Even as we commisserate, a lonely darkness grows.
We were remembering the parts of hearts,
Our feelings that lives had not been given starts.
For on the morning of the eleventh, when
A large part of humanity met their worldly end
A little part of our hearts went too
And even a week later this hole's an open wound.I've been trying to set my heart straight you see
Recover it's heft, get a handle on reality
But I keep reading different stories,
And each succeeding day new worries,
Arrive, about hearing of new souls who soon might be gone
From this Earth by a taste of American bombs.
And I read of the immigrants, who fled other places
With large traces of evil memories
Which time never erases,
And now they see that the terror follows them here
I read of their plight, and my heart sheds new tears.A woman at work had a sad look on her face
We have to get over this feeling, I said, we have to erase
These horrible grievings for humanity's sorrow
Because we have to get out of our beds tomorrow.
Friends email with sorrow which wracks me, to cry
Again and again, why did they have to die?
But resolution, and stamina, are needed, we know
Because this kind is the world of today, and we grow
Stronger with knowledge, and we didn't know personally
That this kind of grief is the grief of humanity.My friend told me they can't find many bodies
In the rubble of New York's Once Magnificent Towers.
Only a few hundred out of thousands who are "missing"
Have been found.
Perhaps this is the beginning of the end,
And perhaps the missing were prematurely raptured.
By God's Hand as an early escape from
A coming tribulation on the ground.Those who seem to be constantly grieving, the sad, the meek,
Shall inherit the world, says the Book.
We shall perhaps soon join our New York friends in Heaven
And will rejoice with Jesus while evil souls cook.
My friend and I talk to console our broken hearts
We mention much, discuss till it hurts, in broken fits and starts.
We do know that the New Yorkers passed to Heaven
And we can take some kind of solace in this knowledge.
Link to the complete text versions of Poetry in 2001 Link to the graphical version of this poem.
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri
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