In several hours, it'll be September 11, 2002. I wish I had something significant to say, but I don't. I suppose I could describe how I felt or where I was when I heard or how much I prayed or... something. But, I'd rather not. And there's nothing left to say that hasn't been said thousands of times over by those far more eloquent, who've lost and sacrificed far more.

Instead, as we hover in a state of national alert... mildly expectant of something that most of us know in our hearts will not happen... I find myself browsing several articles and inspirational poems and flash animations and short stories and paintings and drawings that were made in honor and outrage of that dreadful day. Some are hopeful, some heartbreaking. Some profound, some naive. Some beautiful, terrible, ridiculous, damning, inspiring, insulting... some are even hilarious. Some manage to be all of these. Or maybe none of these.

But, of everything I've read regarding the events of 9-11, a poem by British author Alan Moore has affected me the most. Rather than fumble about any longer, I'll post his words here. God Bless.

The other building falls.

I see a tower of dust, first outpost of Dust's empire, boiling up to take its place. Around me in the cough and the stumble, personal alarms are going off, an awful morning chorus.

Up ahead, through smoke, hauling somebody from the wreckage there's a fireman, but not one of ours. Wrong uniform. That big brass hat, that accent. "I'm all right, mate. There'll be blighters needin' worse 'elp, further on."

He's right. Beyond his rubble of red brick are fragments of a Baghdad mosque, the debris of a Japanese pavilion, smoldering Dresden embers. Voices, shouting through the choking pall in English, German, Arabic and Spanish.

I call out "Where are we?" and a woman turns towards me from the fog and smiling past her tears she says "We are in Guernica", and in my heart I know that this is true.

Guernica, where the sky fell first, this landscape black and gray with dust. Terrified horses and the wail of mothers. From the settling billows they step out to gather round me, to embrace me, kiss my brow and murmur soothing words. "Don't cry, my friend. Don't cry. We're all together now."


"Now we are all in Guernica."

- Alan Moore, 2001