The beauty is not in rust
Or desolation,
It is in the untold stories
Of a million hands
Laid upon this pump,
Stretching across many yesterdays,
With their forgotten heartaches.
To see the beauty in humanity,
Of humanity,
One was must never
Trade in one’s own humanity
In exchange for a license to judge
Or permission to condemn;
All the good we can build
Must build upon what good
There already is.
Steel forged in Pennsylvania,
Gasoline from the Turner Valley,
Hands of travelers through Florida,
And this wanderer, from Georgia,
All in this place, though some
Only years ago, heading into the
The future on the river of time,
Which leaves behind,
In pools and eddies,
Reminders that we still share
More in common
Than the vain among us
Want to admit.
