You are the Editor (America Poems)


They Were Still Alive - Tribute To America, Part 3

The bellows of smoke that rose in the air; still had poignant traces of their breath,

The splinters of glass shattered all around; still had profound stains of their blood,

The gargantuan slabs of concrete lying in disarray; still had brutally pulverized fragments of their valiant bones,

The incoherently shaped mirrors poking out from the rubble; still had their terrorized reflections,

The sordid bits of paper blended with stone; still had embodiments of their last minute declarations,

The disastrously squelched telephone pieces; still had shrill recordings of their horrified and ghastly screams,

The unconsumed cakes of food adhering to the severely distorted lifts; still had vivacious traces of their saliva,

The strands of metallic junk diffusing from the broken car seats; still had the blurred photo of their beloved,

The ripped apart fragments of curtain cloth wound limply around the gleaming iron nails; still contained curled masses of their blood soaked hair,

The disdainfully beaten pieces of plaster engulfed in clouds of dust; were still impregnated with scores of their shimmering teeth,

The mud sprinkled for kilometers on the stretch; was still moist with their river of agonized tears; which must have profusely oozed out from their cheeks,

The mammoth sized pillars which once held the building one piece from beneath; were still flooded with bonquet's of bruised flowers which they had been just
rewarded for their achievements,

The eagle which incessantly encircled the appalling sight; still had their expensive chains of silver in its beak,

The thoroughly dismantled upholstery buried several feet under the debris; still contained compassionate traces of their warmth,

The computer screens split apart into infinite halves; still displayed nostalgic images of their eyes,

The majestic wall paintings battered and bashed from all sides; still had animated marks of their caress,

The revolving chairs now an inconspicuous shadow of themselves; still had a fine conglomerate of chocolate powder; which they must be merrily munching a few
seconds before,

The colossal chimneys which were now reduced to matchsticks; still had their countless dreams rampantly lingering around,

And who says they were dead? , for if not anybody; but it is my firm belief that they were living; as no matter how unprecedented was the tragedy; no matter how horrific their destiny had been; their hearts were palpitating louder than outside world several feet below the rubble; with each beat louder than the other and proclaiming that THEY WERE STILL BREATHING AND ALIVE.

Nikhil Parekh
          skip poem         change topic
[Report Error]