This poem is about a village that once existed in Chautauqua County, NY. The village thrived from 1800-1820. The village was destroyed by fire and a scarlet fever epidemic. I am doing research to write a book.
A fire raged, destroying what was built in pride.
Disease swept away lives.
Fear took hold of the survivors.
They fled from the tragedy of a village that was
no more.
Time crept over the land.
A land that once rang with the voices of 1200
souls.
Farms were cultivated over the remnants of
tragedy.
An expressway passes over the bones of a
proud people.
I wish to peer back through history.
To gaze upon the lives of people who once
dreamed.
People who once dreamed of a new life along
the banks of a winding creek.
The dream was dashed upon an inferno.
The dream ended in the throngs of a disease
that claimed many lives.
Should these dreaming people never ventured
forth to build a bustling village?
Should these people have never braved living
an unpredictable existence?
We never know what lies ahead.
Should we stay still because we fear the
possibility of tragedy?
The survivors of Waterboro moved to another
village.
They never lied down beside the banks of that
winding creek and gave up on life.
Because if they lost their grasp on life.
Their story would have never survived.
I will tell the story of Waterboro.
I will gather all the pieces of the story.
I will fill in all the gaps.
I will place the story of Waterboro within the
pages of a book.
The village will bustle once more.
The people will exist once more.
The story of a dreaming people who were
proud of their village.
The story of Waterboro is not a tragedy.
It is a story of people who climbed out of grief
to continue life.
They lost Waterboro.
They never lost their will on life.
Waterboro, the dream still lives in some people.
That dream lives in me.
If you someday read the story of Waterboro.
Remember these lines and feel proud of
these brave people.
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 868 times
Written on 2006-12-26 at 02:54
Tags Village
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Waterboro
A fire raged, destroying what was built in pride.
Disease swept away lives.
Fear took hold of the survivors.
They fled from the tragedy of a village that was
no more.
Time crept over the land.
A land that once rang with the voices of 1200
souls.
Farms were cultivated over the remnants of
tragedy.
An expressway passes over the bones of a
proud people.
I wish to peer back through history.
To gaze upon the lives of people who once
dreamed.
People who once dreamed of a new life along
the banks of a winding creek.
The dream was dashed upon an inferno.
The dream ended in the throngs of a disease
that claimed many lives.
Should these dreaming people never ventured
forth to build a bustling village?
Should these people have never braved living
an unpredictable existence?
We never know what lies ahead.
Should we stay still because we fear the
possibility of tragedy?
The survivors of Waterboro moved to another
village.
They never lied down beside the banks of that
winding creek and gave up on life.
Because if they lost their grasp on life.
Their story would have never survived.
I will tell the story of Waterboro.
I will gather all the pieces of the story.
I will fill in all the gaps.
I will place the story of Waterboro within the
pages of a book.
The village will bustle once more.
The people will exist once more.
The story of a dreaming people who were
proud of their village.
The story of Waterboro is not a tragedy.
It is a story of people who climbed out of grief
to continue life.
They lost Waterboro.
They never lost their will on life.
Waterboro, the dream still lives in some people.
That dream lives in me.
If you someday read the story of Waterboro.
Remember these lines and feel proud of
these brave people.
Poetry by Amy Buchanan
Read 868 times
Written on 2006-12-26 at 02:54
Tags Village
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
