I shall remember the night: the crowds. The throngs
of people converging in the park; their thundering
applause in Kogelo, in Madrid, on the boulevards
of Paris, and across the lawn of the White House.
I shall remember when the young star glowed
and brightened the vast skies; when the stalwart
shed tears; and when Ann Nixon Cooper,
an old woman of 106, voted and cried.
I shall remember when America stood tall,
the fields of hope produced a massive crop,
the joie de vivre of youth, and it rewarded
whites, blacks, the natives, and the browns.
I remember when the tired white hero bowed
to a discerning young black man; a new captain who
climbed up and stood at the helm of the mighty
ship, guiding its rudder, pondering the storm.
Oh, not the Tuesday of the demise of the towers
but the night of solemn tears from enthralled eyes;
the sea of arms, a bedrock for a gleaming pillar;
one amongst many in the night of the starry skies.