02-21-2023, 09:29 PM
Immigrants
Crooked wooden crosses
loom over strange ships
on the shore.
Boats emerge from the mist
slowly closing in
at our door.
Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel;
meeting us with their eyes
full of wonder, hands
full of steel.
Crooked wooden crosses
loom over strange ships
on the shore.
Boats emerge from the mist
slowly closing in
at our door.
Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel;
meeting us with their eyes
full of wonder, hands
full of steel.
Immigrants
As a red sun rises
on the fringes of the horizon
we’re struck dumb by the sight
of strange ships, with crooked
wooden crosses, looming
over the shore.
Small boats cut through
the morning mist,
closing in
from the breakers,
bearing oddly dressed men
who carry colorful banners.
Reaching dry land they kneel
in the sand, with arms upraised
to some “almighty god.”
They meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.
[pre verse]
Immigrants
As a red sun rises on the fringes of the horizon
we pause from fishing, looking up from our nets,
bewildered by the strange sight of wooden crosses,
laced with ropes, that tower above large ships
looming over the shore.
Smaller boats cut through the morning mist,
closing in from the breakers, bearing peculiar looking men
who unfurl colorful banners as they kneel in the sand,
raising arms to some unknown god. They greet us
with eyes full of wonder, and hands full of steel.
[pre verse]
Immigrants in the New World
An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.
A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight
of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
towering above massive ships
that loom over the shore.
As dense morning mist dissipates
along the beach, two smaller boats
close in from the churning breakers
bearing peculiar looking pale men
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners.
They lay claim to our land
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.
Immigrants in the New World
An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.
A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight
of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.
As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers
bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,
loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.
As a red sun rises
on the fringes of the horizon
we’re struck dumb by the sight
of strange ships, with crooked
wooden crosses, looming
over the shore.
Small boats cut through
the morning mist,
closing in
from the breakers,
bearing oddly dressed men
who carry colorful banners.
Reaching dry land they kneel
in the sand, with arms upraised
to some “almighty god.”
They meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.
[pre verse]
Immigrants
As a red sun rises on the fringes of the horizon
we pause from fishing, looking up from our nets,
bewildered by the strange sight of wooden crosses,
laced with ropes, that tower above large ships
looming over the shore.
Smaller boats cut through the morning mist,
closing in from the breakers, bearing peculiar looking men
who unfurl colorful banners as they kneel in the sand,
raising arms to some unknown god. They greet us
with eyes full of wonder, and hands full of steel.
[pre verse]
Immigrants in the New World
An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.
A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight
of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
towering above massive ships
that loom over the shore.
As dense morning mist dissipates
along the beach, two smaller boats
close in from the churning breakers
bearing peculiar looking pale men
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners.
They lay claim to our land
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.
Immigrants in the New World
An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.
A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight
of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.
As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers
bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,
loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.