Let me draw you near the water
on the banks of a quiet, once southern town,
to tell how I have sat and stared
and oftentimes caught it very unaware.

To relate this story,
to tell of the magic that once was here,
is the reason I was made to ponder
and hover over this city for many a year.

There are times when I am left alone you see
(you see, I knew you could hear),
to rest and think and wait for the dawn and the troops
who will today marvel at my veneer.

The memories in this place have been trampled
and etched into the stone, cut into the lawn,
young girls with flying silks,
young boys with hair too long,
statesmen with manners and the hoi polloi,
kids with pleas instead of toys.

There have been prayers at my feet
and boughs placed near the throne,
there have been faint feelings of joy,
and steps paced very much alone.

When I am as I am now
(as I do at times like this),
I think of the terrible beauty
that was wrought, then saved,
then smelted on simmering streets and nearly missed.

One day stands out among the rest
with the air hot, crowded and nervous at best,
when a man stood at my feet and cried out his dream,
to a nation with few of them, just skimming the cream.

The words he spoke
drew the parish world close to hear

(of a black man speaking of joy so dear),
because he sought the warm cloak
of the flame in the heart of you.

I talk to much of that dim time gone past
when right was worth making
if the world was to last.

-Washington 040583