Typists in the towers

The events of 11th September 2001 were mass murder.
No religion was served, no god directed it. It was done by men to the innocent at work.
The struggle continues. Militancy is among us as are the appeasers of militancy. This is a combination of the plain nasty with the banal.
The reality is the world is ill at ease, is at war. This war is diffuse and permeating and proceeds like fog advancing through a forest. It causes many to grieve.

911

Typist in a tower

A typist in a tower
Got in on time that day
And she was feeling truly glad,
She needed all the pay.

The money went to pay high rent.
Fees, bills and all dues
And money is not heaven sent
When children need new shoes.

She made the coffee for the man
Who had his resumé,
He’d searched so hard to find this job;
Was this his lucky day?

He waited with a glowing hope,
The coffee in his hand.
Now in this firm he knew he’d cope;
This wait he could not stand.

He sat there sipping nervously
Pondering, what was to be,
And in that very instant he
Would share her destiny.

She typed the last line of the text
She’d started yesterday
And at the end it was spell checked,
In her habitual way.

The future is not there to see
No matter how we strive
And as she pressed a zero key,
She ceased to be alive!

With such kinetic energy
They shared a destiny.
A blinding flash a deafening crash,
And then eternity.

Her vapour’s borne upon the air,
Her dust upon the breeze.
It has been scattered everywhere
And blown across the seas.

A lover waited there at home
And watched in silent dread.
He hoped and hoped she’d got in late
And prayed she was not dead.

And in that sad despondent place
His grief he could not stand;
A cold east wind blew in his face,
A child reached for his hand.

Mundane things may help us through
When grief is all around.
In trauma there is nothing new
It is a well-known ground.

And though the dust will soon be gone
A man weeps there at home.
And though he feels so sad and wan,
He does not weep alone.

Another typist another tower
Plane9

Another typist another tower

Another typist in that place
Was very hard at work.
She had just paused for a short space,
Then felt the tower jerk.

And smoke and flames came from below
A fear welled up within.
And in a lurid orange glow
Her thoughts were for her kin.

She phoned her husband at their home
But no one answered there.
She left a message on the phone
That told of her despair.

She gazed upon the darkening smoke
And felt she had to cry.
Then fought through all the fumes and choke;
She did not want to die.

The future’s not for us to see.
The stairway glowed with heat;
And then the ceilings all gave way,
Floors fell beneath her feet.

With much kinetic energy
It was her destiny
To meet a sudden brutal death
And then eternity.

Her husband who was not at home
Watched in a silent dread.
He hoped and hoped she’d got in late
And that she was not dead.

And in a sad despondent place
Hope drained away like sand.
A cold east wind blew in his face,
A friend reached for his hand.

He sat there wondering nervously
Within – alone and blue.
Why should this be her destiny?
There was so much to do.

The children now needed his care.
There are things to be done.
While sympathy is everywhere
Grief can block out the sun.

Draft first written 18 September 2001

© Trevor Morgan, 15/6/2018

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