The river burns and boils along its banks
To the city cottoning half the world,
Built on bluffs of slate
Grassed and flowered by men,
Disturbed with men,
Unknowing of men.
The skeletons of buildings stood
Smeared with the red of his blood,
Clouds were shrouds
Veiling the tears of the sky.
The scars of men,
The hate of men,
The moon hung low,
Haunting the nights with remembrance.
Poverty wept in her toil and rags,
She laid down her former burdens,
Took man’s weight upon her back
And she wept.
The rats’ scurrying ceased.
The dark, hollowed eyes of the children
Were silent and afraid of the mule caisson
And the great men in black
Who shared the grief
They could not understand.
A boy of twelve from the streets
Cried for all men to be brothers
While white and black joined hands,
Swaying with a dream of hope,
And the small boy
Without bitterness,
Deep in his innocence and grief,
Shed streams of tears, glistening
Like crystal on ebony.
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