/I was in Lower Manhattan on 9/11/. I wrote this poem two days later./
by Ray Abernathy
A hand lies trembling in the street.
It has no mouth, it cannot speak;
It cannot run, it has no feet.
Up they went, hats and boots and legs and heads.
Down they came, no shouts or screams, already dead.
Bodies was dropping everywhere, Daria said.
Me and someone else saw a shoe under a piece of car,
so we lifted it up and there was a leg with nothing else attached.
There were strollers with babies in them, turned on their side.
I saw a rescue worker with his arm and shoulder blown off.
He was screaming and running and the policeman
was trying to stop him to help him, but he was panicked
because the blood was coming out of him.
I saw so many people jumping and falling out the building.
One couple took each other’s hands as they jumped.
Up they went, young and strong and full of heart.
Down they came, broken picks and body parts.
A hand lies decomposing in the street.
The living stare, but rarely weep.
The dead look down, but never sleep.
/Scroll down for 9/11: True Stories./