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I stand seared in the wake of our tragic day
For we can rescue, donate, and we can pray,
We can search, we can fight and retaliate,
But the task of mourning seems too great.

Please choose for me a reference frame
By which to conceive this act indiscreet.
The illusions of my generation tumble
With flickering images of falling concrete.

In the ghastly echoes of Obi Wan
I recall the destruction of Alderaan
As if millions of voices suddenly cried
Out in terror before they died.

Men on the march, fleets setting sail,
America’s pierced heart cauterizes.
The task of mourning is not complete,
But we get on with our exercises.

©2001 Carl Pecinovsky