memorial

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Here she hobbled slowly With pain in every step, And there she’s dancing gracefully But I hurt, because she left.   Here her hands were wrinkled, Her hair thinning and white,
  The reaper came to the field that day, For there were twenty million souls to pay. Trapped liked rats in a cage, We came out of the trenches with rage.  
Seeing this young idol Casted down Stricken from his own existence is exhausting It's as if I see it too much.   "I've seen him before!" I'd say, and you'd the both.
A lone girl holds her mother’s hand “What are they doing? We have done nothing wrong.” The next things her mother said were sung in a lullaby song--
Silent Ones   When the sky is dark, and the wind is cold, And the rain comes down, fold on fold,
It has been fifteen years Since that dark and gloomy day We as a nation were attacked Nothing but total turmoil in every way Thousands sadly lost their lives There were painful hearts
Help!-One building then another.An Inferno blazing like the Sun,as a Cloud of darkness engulfs the city.
Let me tell you about the best year of the 20th Century, a year that was great.It was the year when my mom was born and that year was 1948.That was the greatest year of the 20th Century, that's how I feel.
The breeze blowing, The birds singing, The crickets chirping, All of it reminds me of you.
On The Vietnam Memorial Strung across slabs  Of black granite, I wonder what stories.  They might tell? Of their Dreams. And their Fears. ~ Ricardo
It was an ordinary day But ended with tears
A year and a half ago, Mom went to be with the Lord.She entered the Pearly Gates, Heaven is her reward.She was born in 1948 and died sixty-four and a half years later.
Life Like colored butterflies flies by across the sky as you look out the window driving by   Life It ends so quick   Life is only lived once
Dirt that hides itself underneath fingernails.Dry, cracked skin tells a hero's story.Years of hard work leave a calloused palmFirmly hangs on to pride and glory.
A dark room, hushed and enraptured By poetry. Poetry, the life blood and first love of this City. My City. My Home. You are recording these words,
Dedicated to Francisco Robles Amador: Painful words to tender ears.Words are written with falling tears. With each passing just a little more numb,Pity from most, poker-faces on some.
Round curls and shiny locks In gold, red, and brown Bounce on their foreheads As they skip and run through the halls.
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