09 after 11 math 01

On red-tipped trees the ribbons cling,
Silent reminders of suffering
Of people far yet near of here.

Someone stops to wipe a tear.

A story long, a story tall,
Multiples of collapse and fall;
We look in horror on and on.

One block now, we see, is gone.

The days are hard, the nights are long;
At morning, hear the trumpet song;
In whom? In Him we do belong.

One lone fireman walks along.

And waving silently are these
Yellow ribbons on red-tipped trees,
Rising and falling in the breeze.

"Come back," they whisper silently.

"Come back."