Michael's Page

The journey begins near the river and the shack
The rain is light cold and soft,
peddling down a tunnel of puddles and crete.

Following the river it roars with runoff.
Riding past joggers and cycles, faceless and nameless,
Each with dreams of spring flowers and blossoms.

It rains harder, happening upon a memorial.
Bricks and walls a tribute to the gentleness of a spirit,
A spirit of the past, a girl of little rank.

Dismounting approaching a figure of copper and bronze.
Peering from a window,
A gray and green monster, she observes its slither.

She cannot cry, but God has opened his thunder
Rain tears appear on her nose and chin again,
Her pain evident, she cries for new hope.

The oppression of the defenseless, the suffering.
Her witness is not to be forgotten nor forgiven,
She cries once more for her people,
…all people.

Michael Martin 4-5-2006

"It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.
Anne Frank