Torn and rent,
the old flag still flies
atop the buildings,
behind gates of wrought iron.
No simple symbol,
once woven by hand,
but now spun
of strong polyesters,
so that its colors
do not dim,
and it might not rot.
Though it bares the marks
where it’s been burned,
dirty, where it’s been
dragged through the mud,
but always found
and raised again.
Its colors are blood,
because it has been bought
and paid for
time and time again
with the lives
of those who came before,
those who are there now,
and those who will come after.
The wind stirs,
as the seasons change,
and the old flag unfurls,
even with the bullet holes,
and tears, and sins, and shame,
hope bears her up,
fills her out,
so that she reaches proud
towards the blue sky,
and the stars.
The future she so represents.
The past always recedes,
but the dream she was sewn
to represent
was meant
to endure.
DJR – 2023
