by Alan J. Higbee
Fair sky, a bright oracle, perfect and blue,
so frightened the clouds, none dared come within view
as subway cars rumbled 'neath manicured lawn
and lofty glass glistened in first light of dawn
and proud steel had not yet been warmed by the sun
and just one more workday had not yet begun
and early September had not yet turned cold
and three thousand stories had not yet been told
Young Brooks Brothers soldiers in tactical team
deployed to defend The American Dream
with voice-mails of mantra, with E-mails of prose,
with contracts to sign, epic mergers to close,
saw famed Opportunity all through The Land;
marched forth with day-planner and cellphone in hand
and car-keys and kisses and hugs of salute
for three thousand patriots, one last commute
While far to the north in the gathering light
the falcons perched, hooded and ready for flight
named Zeal and Obsession and Vengeance and Rage
swift birds of Apocalypse, honed to engage
an infidel Beast of flamboyance and dread
and demonic lust; whose great dome of a head
boasts towering horns; whose vast army it stores
within its walled pentagram by distant shores;
who, slack in its vigilance, hardly would guess
its legion would soon number three thousand less
and Prophets unborn would sing praises, and tell
how martyrs earned Heaven by toppling Hell
The hoods were removed and the tethers released
and mighty wings thundered in search of the Beast
as high over forest and river they flew
'til great horns and pentagram edged into view.
The falcons swooped low, diving out of the sun;
the soldiers were cornered, unable to run
or strike; in a battle lost soon as begun
they stared out at Death as it hurtled through space
with prayers to the Virgin for courage and grace
or prayers that the virgins still wait as reward
for martyrs whose sacrifice might please their lord
Led blind into night by instructions misspoke
and wandering stairways of panic and smoke
and huddled in corners with no hand to hold
nor shoulder to cry on nor arms to enfold
few faint words of comfort, a voice on the phone
these three thousand souls faced the darkness alone
unsure whether merciful end might be found
in flames near to Heaven or impact with ground
as heroes who saw they had nothing to lose
made tearful goodbyes, but with valor refused
to kneel, and did launch themselves into the fray
one falcon would not reach its quarry this day.
But three bid their fervor and speed be increased
their talons spread wide at the throat of the Beast
slashed through copper sinews and gleaming steel skin
to gorge on the greed and corruption therein
the tall horns they shattered and dashed to the ground
and Earth itself shook as they brought the Beast down
and helmeted troops sent to rescue its fall
were crushed underfoot near the pentagram wall
and mergers like leaves fluttered down from on high
above them, the specter of perfect blue sky
And after dust settles and rubble is cleared
and three thousand proves to be less than we feared
and pilgrims upon hallowed acre have trod
and agonized how a compassionate God
could welcome the martyrs to Heaven, yet leave
the parents and siblings and children to grieve
we blink back our tears, every bit as perplexed
by what was not done as what course to take next
our sovereignty cracked, but our greatest regret
the three thousand stories we too soon forget
Shall we stand and watch as the ashes grow cold
or see that these three thousand stories are told
to all born too late to remember the day?
Soon our recollection will falter, and they
will re-draw our world, and be faced with our choice:
sit silent in fear, or give Justice our voice
exact our revenge, or accept and forgive
fixate on our dead, or embrace all who live
leave three thousand claimed by an undeclared war,
or rush to declare, and claim three thousand more
Three Thousand Stories
© 2004 Alan J. Higbee
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