Metro is called the Subway in New York

         —- 9/11 —-

Beginning of September.
It’s not the summer anymore
but not an autumn yet, as well.
The air is transparent up to the rapture.
It smells like needles for some reason,
without presence of wreaths and pine trees.

The basement of New York,
the Subway…
grey rats are living and die in that place.
Gray dirty trains are moving by,
but  rats are used to them
and do not give a damn about noice and thunder.

Then,  in that moments,
handwritten notes, pictures from the photo albums,
were glued on pillars of platforms.
And windows of passing traines repeated  their sorrow in silence.

Here is a ballerina in white tutus.
And mom plays with her son in green backyard.
Here is a couple... lost kiss, and touch, and beach, and sand… Caribbean…

and phones, and phones, and phones...

“...looking for ..., Call ..., Calls ..., Who saw my friend? My darling, please, I beg you, please… respond. Dad, where are you?”

Souls were walking on platforms.
They were listening, surprised ...
and guardian angels were comforting and escorting ...
and quiet, silent prayers were sung, indeed.
Somehow, quenching final pain, Kaddish proclaimed himself be crown and remorse.

Beginning of September. Morning. The bodies were burning in the hell.
The last escape. They fell like stones, which were thrown into the abyss between the floors ...

And those below are paralyzed and numb ...
The smells of boiling blood,
embarrassing, exciting,
they strangled Subway tunnels ...

Yes, Joseph was indeed a charming boy.
Why, then,  half-brothers sold him
into captivity for nothing?

The Underground Path to Heaven -
New York’s Metro is called the Subway.


P.S.

By the evening of that day, 9/11, at all subway stations there were thousands of notes and photos of relatives and friends,
who did not come home, did not call ...

May their memory be holy.

Did  twenty years thereafter America betray them?

I was nearby that place. The point in time. My life stopped there.


2001-2018, New York.