A counterfeit curtain hangs,

lifeless, despite ever-present wind.

 

Below, sirens call

in hypnotic charm.

 

Never again,

people would say.

 

An element of hope

burns into the sun.

 

Keep moving

bullhorns roar.

 

Step follows step

follows step

 

follows step.

 

But some jumped

as if ghosts.

 

Remote shadows

fold curtains like flags.

 

Foster children of fate

September 11, 2001.