Born in smoke and fire of Liberty's war
Her keel laid in 1776 of design, pure and clean
Inspired by the Almighty say some
Built by a God-Fearing people
Free and strong
Armed with Faith, Bible and Rifle
Out of knowledge hard-won
in ways of the sea
Her sails, like white clouds on Her masts
Taller, with hull stronger, than all who came before
White-painted, as a symbol of purity and goodness
Her name, on bow and stern, wrought of purest gold
Loved by Her people and launched
With blessings from God
Beautiful, proud, Her flag, Red and White,
With White stars on a field of Dark Blue
Flying high in the wind
Her crowning glory.
Lit fore and aft with the Lamp of Liberty
Shining out over dark and stormy seas as a beacon of hope.
A century or so, pass
Generations come and go
Each defending Her as best they can
Now, aging, Her paint streaked, worn, and darkened with change
Her decks, forever stained from patriots fallen in battle
Scars of fierce storms and many wars on Her planking
Weary, with Faith ebbing
Her Lamp growing dim
Pushed by wind and wave, sailing far to port
Of Her true course.
Sailing now, under the flag of a "new-order" of pale blue
Its design, that of a globe surrounded by a wreath of white.
Fierce, evil, beyond man's imagination
A storm tears at the Ship
Her great sails torn, ripped, black as grief
Streaming water, as though weeping
in fury of wind and wave, green-black crested with foam
An avalanche of water
Crashing over the bow roaring and hissing along the decks
Many swept away, leaderless, a remnant of the crew
Struggle to save the Ship
Torn from its high place, dirty, charred, frayed by war
The Old Flag, trapped and floating on water in the scuppers
Once a symbol of courage for a free people
Now, reviled by many.
Lit by the glare of lightning
Eyes red, fearful, gleaming with fury
Restrained, but lusting for power
Co-captain and high priestess of the "new religion"
Clenched fists high, she screams their defiance heavewnward.
Lesser leaders of the "new-religion" huddle in their temples
Fearfully, chanting their ancient rituals uselessly, endlessly.
The magician, aged, in mind and body,
Robes of office dark-green and cone-shaped hat
All adorned with symbols of money in silver and gold
Muttering his ancient incantations
As shield against the storm.
Supreme in their "wisdom" the nine navigators
in robes as black as their hearts
Continue, in their relentless re-interpretation of the
Sailing orders of old
Sowing confusion, anger, and hatred among the people.
Foolish, unlearned in the faith of their fathers
The people, now full of information
Thinking it knowledge and wisdom
Fight among their numbers, while, dancing, singing
Offering in clouds of incense, their unborn, their young, their old
As sacrifice to gods of the "new-religion".
Port-side on the quarter deck
The Captain
Screaming above the storm
Raging round his head
Vengeance, betrayal and treason in his heart
Through executive orders, Captain of the "new-order"
His goal.
Cringing, feaarful of the "powers"
Behind the Captain
Two helmsmen, House and Senate
Courage turned to water
Struggle uselessly at the great wheel.
From the dark, huge, unseen, black as death
Foam, torn away by the gale
A wave, sweeps the decks, bow to stern,
Under tons of water. The Ship,
Groaning, in agony, rises slowly, streaming water.
The Flag of old, forgotten
Pulled, by receding waters
To lie for a moment, on the surface
Then, quietly, reluctantly, slips beneath the waves.
The wind, a sigh of sorrow, blows away
A swirl of foam, crown shaped
Briefly marking the place.
Only God noticed.
William Evans
July 4, Y2K
