JUBILANT FATHER
His face is like a sun, warms the moon beside him.
She´s grown full; tonight begins the waning.
The tide pulls through her very bones,
her form aches as each wave crests.
The earth pulse, heavy, blood warm within her
Beats new chords, old sun god chants.
"You are the first mother and the last,
all spring flesh has traveled through you."
Aztec plumed and gold beaded,
your priest kneels at the holy alter,
gathers each salt pearl shed, nectar for his sacrament.
You are the temple,
we pilgrims swept through the gates,
bent figures know the scent and petals of your presence,
spread our arms to harvest blossoms,
and your priest, sun struck, kneels beside you.
'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.' Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, 'Me and Bobby McGee'
We tribute the people whose lives were lost on a cold, unforgiving September day, These souls rose up from the rubble to live on in our minds, thirsty things that can't Leave the past behind and so we tribute the lost, and those who jumped, those precious Loved ones who were never found, and our tears fall for the heroes who rose up in the
Dark rubble of falling towers, squaring their shoulders and searching for hours, To rush in as others rushed out amidst the broken, scattered wings of America's freedom. We tribute the men who died in the line of a duty that very well could have been left behind. Those men who appeared with blood and dirt, the souls who never had the chance to hurt For it all fell too quickly, a devastating cry from freedom's precious color-blind eye.
We send a prayer to the skies for the devastating thing that made the world cry, and Overlook the young men, children, they seem, who leave their families to capture a broken dream, Freedom, a lie we all know so well, if we were free those towers would still be standing, So we tribute the martyrs, the workers, the saints, men who picked up the pieces,
Made it easier to pray, forgetting that there are woman with their husbands out to sea, Children missing daddy, and things that will never be, for our soldiers fight for a freedom We pretend to have - we overlook the men who used to be children that we would slap upon The back for a good homerun, or a better grade in a subject they hate, damn that English anyway.
Our soldiers are men with hearts on their sleeves, covered with kevlar, surrounded by leaves, Sandstorms and aching mornings, hot showers in a scalding desert where they sit for months To be shipped back again because the price of freedom, well, we all know that it's never free- There's a price for everything, so daddy must leave, and your son will come home with a
Pain in his soul, fighting freedom, a fight that will never grow old, so lets tribute the soldiers, The ones who never come home, for their lives are spent in the desert while their children, they grow. These soldiers are men who sit right beside you, women who love the challenge of a fight, and Among the many that stand and fall, these precious souls will always stand for whats right.
I tribute the soldier, the tanker, the sailor, the command sergeant major who never lets them quit. A pretend to be hard-hearted first sergeant, whose got the lives of young men in his two human hands. The man who died from complications of a wound, who got to see the whole wide world, but couldn't Remember his daughter had just turned two, for they hold the world in their precious hands, Together, forever, united, they stand, the marine, the aircraft mechanic and his pilot, in foreign lands. I tribute the soldiers, who fight for our freedom, who die every day in far away lands.
Krystal Dailey ' 2002
'Maybe life isn't supposed to make any sense.' ' Andy Kauffman
