It waves stubbornly, proudly, timelessly. Marking a moment, a place, a people. It has a strict meaning and a looser one. Spun by a patriot, is is soaked in folklore. On one shore it means freedom, on another, oppression. Is it bravery or bravado sewn into the tattered fabric? Where it whispers, do we hear words of hope? Hoist it high, don’t let it lie.
The silver beams reach higher and higher, competing with each other and with the world. With spires, like arms, reaching ever higher trying to pull themselves closer to the heavens. Reflecting their competitors and their surroundings, keeping their true identities hidden. We cannot see into each small window, filled with each small person, working on each small task. We cannot see their tired humbled masses – just the massive shell that holds them.
They fill up the symbol, right to the top, its blood and guts. And if it were to fall one day, a symbol shattered, oh how they would all come tumbling out. Their symbol a hollow shell, steel that will destroy them, not protect them. The second best, now reaching highest, its own steel arms reaching to the sky, claiming its ownership of the heavens.
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