Lying in a hospital bed in New York City.
These were the hands strummed the skyline of America,
On arms that flail like a machine.
This machine can’t kill fascists anymore.
The sad, sagging eyes
Mournful, full of loss and pain,
Bear the weight of more than a song.
There it goes:
The voice of a nation,
Not just the generation,
Silenced, snuffed out, no great sound
Like a great electric light burning out.
Come with the dust,
Now gone with the wind
That carries his song.
Patrick O'Reilly
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-the-body-of-woody-guthrie/
