At birth,
a tag on the wrist
generates a list
of places one may roam.
The concept of race
limits the space
a man can call his home.
In life,
beliefs chance provided
keep us divided
and confuse our sense of right.
Our level of wealth
dictates our health
and who will win the fight.
In death,
that tag on the toe
won’t help us to know
if we’re off to fire or glory.
It’s not what we take,
but the love we make
that’ll shape the final story.
Wow, I do so. like. Sounds a little like me. Read mine _ Home Is _ Adeline
A beautiful poem indeed - who could resist reading a poem with such a great title?
This is freaking glorious! ! ! I especially love the last stanza. And the middle one. And the first one. Ten out of ten, thank you for sharing this. :)
My 'Wartime Lessons That We're Still Fighting' subject is my father's eoncounter of the strick enforcement of 'wrist tags' at a US Naval training center in the Southern US right after Pearl Harbor. He was use to less subtle 'tags' growing up in the semi-mutil-cultural Mission Distrct of San Francsico in the `1930s and 40s. Strict segregation surprised him. The tone I tried to acheive is matter-of-factness. As he decribed it to me, that was the way it was dealt with at the time, in that location. The 1950's and '60s integration of buses, lunch-counters and schools forced people to face what they had been glancing away from. Your closing lines have the solid ring of a Beatles's song. Tom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the fine all stories, are not the final stories! the store has an ore! who will decide. ore will it be the bear?