January 6, 2021
It's only a place
that sits on a hill,
shines white in the morning
and pink toward evening.
It's only a place.
Wood and cement,
windows and doors,
walls and ceilings,
marble and tiles.
So why am I crying?
It's only a place.
its walls witnessing
the words of the people,
thousands of speeches,
countless ideas
arguments reverberating
and echoing through its halls.
So why do I stare in disbelief?
It's only a place,
a bookmark of our history,
shimmering with our successes
stained deeply by our failures
A place that
lives and breathes with ideas
Freedom is its oxygen
Debate is the blood that runs
through its veins
Democracy the skeleton
that strengthens it.
It stands witness to our achievements
but also to our shame.
The People's House
It's only a place
Its walls mirror our history
its doors open to
lofty ideals
which broke with the past
Its floors have met
the footsteps of patriots,
the strides of the ordinary,
renegades
and sometime the extraordinary.
Its walls have embraced
those who serve and those who give,
those who see the future and
help us to get there.
Its windows gaze from the past
far into our future
A witness to history as it unfurls.
It's only a place
Imperfect, but it is ours.
Built by dreamers so we
can continue to dream.
Nothing can erase these walls.
Nothing can break these doors.
Nothing can shatter these windows.
They are but wood,
they are but glass.
Ideas cannot be erased
and cannot be sullied.
This place cannot be broken
It's only a place but
it's the heart of our past
and the hope our future.
A house on The Hill
still being built
The soul of an imperfect nation
(Capitol photograph from Getty Images)