Three colors on a scrap of canvas fluttering in the wind
Can only represent the smallest part
Of a native love so deeply buried inside
Even the most cynical heart, causing
A brief smile, a sudden cheer, as colored stars
Scatter across the sky above staring eyes
Waving three colors on a scrap of canvas.
Proud lineage of the storm-tossed refuse
So long called by a shining beacon in a bustling harbor
Now stand in high places, if only in thought
Looking down on the world below them
Still enslaved to petty despots, still hearing
The call from the shining beacon in the storm-tossed harbor.
A gift now centuries in the keeping, one
Forgets to remember, was given
Not by a mortal hand now withdrawn
Unable to reclaim the precious treasure
Held by wondering eyes waving colored canvas.
One still forgets, the immortal hand yet waits and watches
Colored stars splashing across the sky
That cannot tell the purpose intended for
The weary hands now clasped beneath staring eyes.
Let the shining beacon, the teeming harbor
Still call the native hearts of those who love
To see with awestruck eyes, eternal purpose
Only partly manifested behind brick walls where a nation was made.
And proud children, staring down on those below
May know that they have a higher calling
Beyond their colored canvas and scattered stars
That demands their souls for the souls of the weary beneath.
Eternal demand, undying purpose, will still call, even
After the colored canvas is burned and the shining beacon dies
And let native love, still held by even greater love
Like a new Job be still considered blessed
When such a gift so long entrusted
To weary hands, wide eyes, and native hearts
Is returned to the giving hand, to be held
For others now more worthy.