Thursday, December 29, 2011

Lincoln, April 16th

Hold me like rain
On the wound of the nation
The salve that binds colors and classes and thieves

Hold me like smoke
Where the fire has seared you
Gunpowder and gristle become grasses and seed

Hold me like hope
On the lips of the children
Whose fathers and uncles are corpses and wreaths

Hold no more hostage
Ascending toward freedom
Angels descending hold garlands and peace

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