It doesn’t have any name…
It couldn’t be named
NEW YORK SEPT–11–2001
On a fresh and beautiful morning,
At the end of summer, disgrace came,
Accompanied by death in hand,
The sun, in his journey to the halt,
Shining with more force than usual,
In what manner, to reach the distant corner,
The soft breeze carrying as a partner
That peculiar smell of sea…
Of eagerness, and hope…
Unaware birds in their flying,
Danced in the air looking for towropes,
People who comes and go, with
Love and affliction, monotone noise,
Common in daily living.
Suddenly…
Only sadness could be felt in the air,
The happiness of that radiant sun…
Now opaque, and the warmth
Although present…
Can’t be felt any more,
It doesn’t matter,
The city is hurt,
Pride came down,
In the middle of ashes, and cement powder,
In the middle of pain, and damaged bodies,
In the middle of death, and innocent’s screams.
The destruction came from the sky,
With the spear on guard…
In the form of a silver bird,
And struck the target…
Death wounding the first of the twin towers,
Leaving speechless,
All those who saw her trembling,
And came from the sky,
The second silver bird,
Bringing as a death messenger,
Only destruction on its path,
Striking clearly the other tower’s heart,
That stood beside her sister.
The giant twin sisters,
The pride of all of us…
Are hurt,
The giant sisters are dying,
And fall to the ground
As wounded pigeons,
Hardly breathing,
In middle of a big dusty cloud as a witness,
Showing to the world…
The imminent downfall,
Screams and sorrow,
That sisters before, impressive,
Now are resting on the ground,
With blood, dust, and debris.
Now only could be heard,
The howling of the sirens from those valiant,
In frantic race,
Trying to save a life,
Perhaps they has to give up their own,
And in the air is felt…
Melancholy and sadness…
No body speaks,
No body hears,
The city is badly wounded…
The villainy done…doesn’t have any name,
Ricardo Vidal
Sept.11, 2001
