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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392264" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Freedom Train Trilogy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Freedom Train...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The modest homes of the Borough of Queens<br>Are sturdy in their contrast to high Manhattan<br>Across which I saw drifting<br>The ashen smoke of the fallen towers<br>From this outpost of the city, a week after 'nine-eleven'<br> <br>The tallest flagpole you could have imagined<br>Stands military-straight above a score of tollbooths<br>And the twelve lane thoroughfare of cars<br>Makes me feel like a visitor from a previous time -<br>But it's still that old union flag, however high it stands<br> <br>Not a seat is empty on this sleek metal tube<br>That runs on its barely-subsidized tracks<br>Through a tiny stretch of the vast coastline<br>Stealing a peek at the brave Atlantic<br> <br>A child concentrated on video games<br>Lends no mind to what her father sees. Around them, <br>Many tongues, ancestries, the faiths -<br>Fanaticisms held in check<br>By laws crafted for the needs<br>Of those who harness this diffusion<br> <br>The airport which swallows the planes swooping low<br>Across the municipal towers of Newark<br>Is named for some primary notion of freedom -<br>But see, here is a passing Freedom Train<br>Gliding by the piles of industrial rage, <br>Seeking better ways and better days.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Train of State....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This train rides hard on buckled tracks<br>Through countryside so dark of late<br>Its owner's debt borne on its back <br>Its debtors all too profligate</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Catch this train while best you can<br>During its long deceleration<br>Anticipate its sudden fall<br>Towards a deep degeneration</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In service to an indigent nation<br>Consuming the loans of its eastern station<br>Secured by traded legislation<br>Without a brake on its destination.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Few hold great hopes for this railway system<br>Built by slaves of a penal condition<br>No-one predicts when the crash may happen<br>When the rates will soar and the misery deepen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You boarded on time, the train relenting<br>To take on stocks. You rightly fear<br>You will not part so easily<br>Nor shed all your addictions here</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reassured by the strength of blind momentum<br>Plowing unrestrained across the plains<br>No plan on board for contingent moments<br>Only schedules of secret designs</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The train a toy of moneyed ventures<br>Of who paid what to whom, and how -<br>Transactions in some currency<br>That shields them from detection now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On pain of state investigation<br>I know I can't enquire, complain<br>Or claim the right to information<br>About the intent of this train.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Train of Dreams....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the village called Mochudi, on the Kalahari fringe<br>Two sisters, Education Child and Miracle, carry their loads<br>Of elementary books beside the line of rail, climbing in neat grey uniforms<br>The hill to school. The single track <br>Awaits the daily train that hauls the sheep and goats <br>And owners to the north colonial lands<br>While in the dry warm hovering air<br>Infused by levitating specks of sand<br>Freedom is a perceptible dance</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the Pyrenees, carriages hug the snowy morning hills<br>Exhausted by the nightlong dash through redolent French fields<br>Now voices raise a chant in every silenced church<br>Invading like the lethal sunlight of a summer dawn.<br>The train descends for the embrace of Spanish plains, <br>The olive groves of Portugal, carnations from its windows strewn<br>And gathered by the thirsting wraiths</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the skirts of old Philadelphia unfold<br>The red-lined slums and drug-imprisoned zones <br>Snarl below the elevated track, <br>This line that finds its station<br>In a history of forgotten slaves, by the cracked bell of Liberty<br>Where Washington himself owned souls, where the Slave Trade Act<br>Of 1794 was passed in Congress, where African children<br>Apprehended from ships were indentured to education<br>And grew only to glimpse their freedom, to receive two suits of clothes, <br>One new, one old. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This train conveying dreams on every rack, <br>In every trunk, conceived by many minds, <br>Comes to halt in Pennsylvania, but remains primed, <br>While we its crew<br>In hope and servitude<br>Lay sleepers towards new frontiers and stoke<br>The engines of our dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Frank+Bana">Frank Bana</a><div class=q>
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The modest homes of the Borough of Queens
Are sturdy in their contrast to high Manhattan
Across which I saw drifting
The ashen smoke of the fallen towers
From this outpost of the city, a week after 'nine-eleven'
 
The tallest fla..."></div>
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