Maybe midst ruins, rubble of
toppled walls, crumbled blocks
overgrown debris, purpose of
presence is found, a nearer future
final grief before rebirth
to turn from lament, awe of steel
glass that towers over one
no longer startled by pomp of wealth
manufactured images to deceive
but free at last to shout, to sing
jubilant weeping that blossoms
to build a new, upon the fallen.
© Jan G. Otterstrom F.
April 9, 2015