A Spring afternoon racing marathon miles -
a crowd thick with families, runners and smiles,
shocked and bloodied by the burst of bomb’s twin blast
decimating the thrill of the finish line to be passed,
forever marking the moment when we collectively cried
as innocents were bloodied, were damaged, and died.
When roar of crowds and victories cheers
turn to blistered rage and painful tears -
when a moment where valiant struggles end
is broken by flesh as it burns and rends -
then the flash of a coward’s malicious act
highlights a city’s strength as fact.
And in the drifting smoke’s noxious gloom -
instead of the terror the heinous act assumes,
the fire that burns in every patriot’s breast
ignites heroism in the strongest and the best,
driving moments of humanity and heart
that refuse to allow us to be torn apart.
A tradition that’s lived more than a hundred years
will outlive a moment of a madman’s fears.
A city that has known two centuries of time,
its citizens stronger than any single act of crime,
will never bow down to the jackboot of fear –
the race will see a lot more runners next year.