History of Sorts

On September 10th, the sky was clear,
A Monday like so many others here.
The sun shone bright, the air was still,
And time moved on with its steady will.

The city hummed, the world unaware,
Of the storm of sorrow that soon would tear
Through streets of steel and hearts of stone,
Leaving scars where hope had once grown.

People laughed, they rushed, they dreamed,
In boardrooms, parks, and subway streams.
No whispered hint of what would fall,
No shadow darkened those towers—tall.

Mothers kissed their children’s heads,
Fathers turned down the empty beds,
Workers filed into glassy heights,
Not knowing they’d soon face endless nights.

The sky was blue, the clouds so few,
A fragile peace no one knew
Would shatter in a breath, a flame,
And leave the world forever changed.

September 10th, a final breath
Before the plunge, before the death,
Of innocence, of moments free,
A day before history’s cruelty.

On that last day, the world stood still,
Before it toppled from the hill.
A quiet calm before the storm,
One last moment in familiar form.