by Frank Weltner. All Rights Reserved.
Psalms of the Towers of Babel
The Towers of Babel Killer
Osama Ben Ladin is my name.
I am the man who felled two evil Towers
Devoted to the arts of usury
And greed. My pilots sailed into their walls
In Allahís name. The Infidels burned hot
Within a hell of their own choosing. Hell
Is due the Jews and those who deal in loans,
Securities, and drugs, as these men had.
Those souls and soulless papers sailing out
Into the New York streets were deals gone bad.
They never shall collect on those that fell
That bright auspicious day. The world now knows
The deadly blow I dealt them. Box knives pushed
Their world away into a pall of doubts.
Al Quaeda Pilot
I am Al Quaeda, piloting this jet
For Allahís sake, to save my peopleís lands
From Israel, the curse of millions. Here,
My hands control the smoothest wings of death
That ever flew the Hudsonís sparkling stream.
My hands are red with blood for Allahís needs.
I do not care for virgins inside gates
In Allahís Heavens, only that I killed
These men inside these towering banker realms
Where usury is King and men are slaves to them.
I see their Towers ahead. Their faces gaze
Incipiently upon my dancing wings.
This is their fault. They let us come inside
Their shores. They taught us how to fly these planes.
The World Trade Tower
I saw the Towers of Babel fall that day
Pronounced by God as evil to the core.
So, He destroyed them all, collapsed their pride,
And left them merely ashes on the floor.
Distorted figures bent and torn inside
All tossed asunder by the fall of manís
Insidious plunge toward death. Inside
The blacks and whites and yellows died alone.
That maelstrom mixed their flesh. The hand of God
Was on them, judging them. Their arrogance
Was due a fall, their mixing there inside
Those walls was judged and judgement comes
In painful swathes when God decides to end
An evil in His land. So, Babel fell.
Falling Inside the World Trade Center
The flames of heat consume me now. My friends
Have jumped into the open air to float
Into Eternity with opened arms, embrace
The death that knows that no escape can come
For people in a building up so high.
We scratch against the face of God up here.
Now comes His Hands upon our heads to take
Us up into His arms forever, hurled
Into the Chaos by the tumbling wreck
Of these great Towers, we are made of void
Itself, so mingled into dust and ash,
So ground into the powered skies where we
Had worked oblivious to our destiny
To die within the air wherein we walked.
He was the father of four children left
Behind in this catastrophe. I see
His face at twilight in the hole above
New York where once stood greatness born
Of gaudiest splendor. Children of our love
With empty eyes as wide as that grand hole
Where stood those Towers, mourn hopelessly for dadís
Enclosing arms that never more shall hold
Them close or tuck them off to bed, for he
Is gone into the bottomless pit where stood
Those spires of splendid glass poked high into
The Eye of Godís own Heaven. Close to God
In work, he fell to Earth. Now, he is gone.
At least our childrenís faces have his eyes.