Jagged white lightning bolts
Illuminate green rolling farmland,
The Land of Milk and Honey split
By curving rough black tarmac,
A solid River Styx.
Thunder booms in static air,
Its canon fire echoing:
Past collides with present
On this warm May night
Seven score, sixteen years later.
Our history professors taught us:
The northernmost battle,
Three days of considerable bloodshed,
Thousands died on both sides
So, Lincoln said, a “nation might live.”
The surviving generations must endure
And dedicate themselves to advancing
The unfinished work, our liberty,
Of those who fought here …
Here on these hallowed hills —
Sun-kissed hills where people now walk
In Civil War regalia and red fanny packs,
Old Glory emblems and khaki hats,
Absorbing aura of this place
And laments of combat-weary dead.
Today, our country is divided
By isms and ego statuses —
Life a never-ending death march
Of unreachable Western perfection,
Far from history’s deepest lessons.
Until freedom sans persecution roots itself —
The heritage of all people,
Not just the proclaimed chosen few!!! —
We are the Ghosts of Gettysburg
Always searching for home.