In the wind that whistles thru the sorrow of our souls,
And the dust-choked shadows of despair,
It was "a day that will live in infamy,"
A day of loss, of mourning, of prayer.
And we will never be the same,
Not you, nor I, nor the world as we know it.
Not the brash, nor the damned, nor the cowardly,
Not the blessed, nor the brave, nor heroic.
And what do you say to the five-year old
Whose daddy will never again walk thru the front door?
How do you find the words when she asks,
"Where was God?" and "Who's Heaven for?"
If I were a prophet, a poet, a seer,
I might have eloquent insight to share.
But I do not see into the future,
I see a picture postcard...a cityscape no longer there.
