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Post by Redz on Mar 31, 2004 14:40:07 GMT
96 stood tall
Will the silence ever end will the truth ever emerge. 96 stood tall ,96 in our hearts,96 lost brothers and sisters tumbled and vanished. we were to blame the S*n claimed,we stole from our fallen friends and kicked the bloody dead that's the crap they made you read.
How can they get away with it how many more will they hurt? will they ever see the family's cry will they ever take back the lies.
96 stood tall,96 in our hearts 96 too many will the lies ever end. so sing a song tall and proud. Sing the song till Justice can be found.
Justice'96 Redzion
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sw17lfc
Kopite.
ste gerrard gerrard
Posts: 703
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Post by sw17lfc on Mar 31, 2004 15:18:31 GMT
true red very good point indeed Brilliant poem aswell
R I P 96'
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Post by Redz on Apr 1, 2004 11:40:25 GMT
Thank you please add one yourself.
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Post by sj04 on Apr 10, 2004 17:47:08 GMT
As i bury the ones i loved most. I glanced upon a distant ghost. "don't think i died in vain, I know you think i died in pain. But the angels quickly grabbed my soul. And to a guardian i was sold. I look upon you night and day. I know what your tears want to say. No more tears should you shed. Because. I was never dead. I'm sitting right by your side. I've wiped the tears,that you have cried. My liverpool will always remember me. Because i live,in thier history." Y N W A . R.I.P. WWW.POETRTPOEM.COM/POETRY11665(C)
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Post by sj04 on Apr 16, 2004 6:34:41 GMT
i can't believe it's been fifteen years. since the start of my tears. Why? God why? Please tell me why? Did their innocence have to die? Look at the way we carry our grief. A little bit of justice might bring relief. You've taken our brothers, sisters and dads. Look how their absence makes us sad. 96 spirits, you must take in you hand. And upon a throne you make them stand. Let them see we will never forget. That tragic day, we all regret. Let them see we burn our flame. And bring to justice those to blame. We miss you guys. And to you, our love. We send to those that are above.
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Post by Redz on Apr 16, 2004 15:16:09 GMT
Pete Evo Poems That Lad April fifteenth, nineteen-eighty-nine. Semi-final day, the weather was fine. Set off for Hillsborough in our mini-bus. Laughing and singing, all twelve of us. Bevy in the alehouse. Reds having the crack. We didn't know then some wouldn't come back. Walked down the hill on the way to the ground. This was dead weird, not many bizzies around. There's normally hundreds. Usually loads. They must all be busy blocking off the roads. Forest fans in one way, Liverpool another. Can't have them meeting. " Don't want the bother." One bizzy on horseback shouting over the din. "Stop bloody pushing. You'll all get in." "Come on lads, they've opened a gate." "Hurry up, we don't wanna be late." Straight up the tunnel and into the dark. Couldn't even see the players out there on the park. Something's not right. This is all going wrong. My ribs are getting crushed in this massive throng. I fell on the terrace, looking up at the sky. God, I was scared. I don't wanna die! Punch, kick, scrap, fight. Got to do anything to get back upright. I was like a wild animal. What's happening here! Survival instinct. Stark bloody fear! "Get outa my way lad. I can't get my breath!" I didn't realise he was so near to death. "Open the fence! Please! Let us out!" That lad went under. It was his last ever shout. Help me! Pull me up! Grab hold of my hand! Get me out of this hellhole and into the stand! I was safe. I survived. I was free from that hell. How many dead? I just couldn't tell. Looked down at the pitch, there was that lad. A man weeping over him. That man was his Dad. He was trying to revive him with the kiss of life. But that lad was gone. How would his Dad tell his wife? Many years on. Still no justice done. That man's still grieving for his dear son. Was it me? Was it my fault? Was I to blame? I still ask myself at the Eternal Flame.
Other Poems Six minutes past three on that tragic day. The pain and the trauma won't go away. Crushed as I was in that terrible pen. Dead bodies around me; one as young as ten. I was big and strong, so I scrapped and I fought To save my own life; well that's what I thought. Because inside I'm dead and it cuts like a knife That ninety-six died and I have a life. I did what I had to; I had three kids you see. I couldn't die; it couldn't be me. If I had died that day I never would have seen My Ma's last seven years: My dear old queen. Ninety-six souls haunt my dreams. The nightmares won't stop; that's what it seems I wake up sweating, shivering and shouting out loud "There's ninety-six dead in that xxxxxxx crowd!" I feel anger, I feel hatred, I feel guilt, I feel shame. Ninety-six souls tell me I'm not to blame. So why do I wake up screaming and crying
Seeing the faces of young people dying? Ninety-six souls come to meet me each night Taking me back to that terrible sight. "They're to blame: Duckenfield and Murray We'll get justice one day. We're in no hurry." I should have died that day: I know that's a fact. With the ninety-six souls I've made a pact. "When my days are up and my judgement awaits I'll meet you all in heaven at the Bill Shankly Gates."
"THEY ROBBED THEIR OWN DEAD. WHAT A TERRIBLE SIGHT!" "THE TRUTH!" SAID THE SUN, SO IT MUST BE RIGHT. " DRUNKEN SCOUSE YOBS FORCED OPEN A GATE!" SCREAMED THE BILE FROM THE SCUMRAG WE ALL HATE. "SCUM PEED ON BOBBIES TRYING TO SAVE THEIR MATES LIVES!" HOW MUCH MORE WILL THEY TWIST THEIR KNIVES?
NO SCOUSER ON EARTH SHOULD EVER BE SEEN WITH THAT PIECE OF DIRT, THAT RAG SO OBSCENE. NINETY-SIX LIVES, NINETY-SIX GONE. YET THE PEOPLE TO BLAME STILL CARRY ON. bitters, LEEDS, SPURS AND UNITED EVERY CLUB'S FANS WANT TO SEE THE WRONGS RIGHTED. "IT COULD HAVE BEEN US," EVERYONE SAID "WHO'S FANS WERE LEFT CRUSHED, INJURED AND DEAD."
WE ONLY WANT Justice, WE DON'T WANT REVENGE. WE ONLY SEEK ANSWERS, NOT TO AVENGE. ADMIT YOU WERE WRONG (IT'S NOT TOO LATE) IN GIVING THE ORDER TO OPEN THE GATE. NINETY-SIX DEAD, "NO-ONE TO BLAME" SAID A JUDGE UP IN LEEDS: BRITISH Justice IN SHAME.
"THE TRUTH" WAS ALL LIES AND DISGRACED OUR GOOD NAME. NINETY-SIX DEAD. NO-ONE TO BLAME. NO POLICEMEN CONVICTED, THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERED. NINETY-SIX FAMILIES LEFT BROKEN AND SHATTERED. NINETY-SIX LIVES LOST WATCHING A GAME. NINETY-SIX DEAD. NO-ONE TO BLAME.
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Post by Redz on Apr 16, 2004 15:18:29 GMT
The Justice Bell by Dave Kirby
A schoolboy holds a leather ball in a photograph on a bedroom wall the bed is made, the curtains drawn as silence greets the break of dawn.
The dusk gives way to morning light revealing shades of red and white which hang from posters locked in time of the Liverpool team of 89.
Upon a pale white quilted sheet a football kit is folded neat with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red and some football boots beside the bed.
In hope, the room awakes each day to see the boy who used to play but once again it wakes alone for this young boy's not coming home.
Outside, the springtime fills the air the smell of life is everywhere viola's bloom and tulips grow while daffodils dance heel to toe.
These should have been such special times for a boy who'd now be in his prime but spring forever turned to grey in theYorkshire sun, one April day.
The clock was locked on 3.06 as sun shone down upon the pitch lighting up faces etched in pain as death descended on Leppings Lane.
Between the bars an arm is raised amidst a human tidal wave a young hand yearning to be saved grows weak inside this deathly cage.
A boy not barely in his teens is lost amongst the dying screams a body too frail to fight for breath is drowned below a sea of death
His outstretched arm then disappears to signal fourteen years of tears as 96 souls of those who fell await the toll of the justice bell.
Ever since that disastrous day a vision often comes my way I reach and grab his outstretched arm then pull him up away from harm.
We both embrace with tear-filled eyes I then awake to realise its the same old dream I have each week as I quietly cry myself to sleep.
On April the 15th every year when all is calm and skies are clear beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon a lone scots piper plays a tune.
The tune rings out the justice cause then blows due west across the moors it passes by the eternal flame then engulfs a young boys picture frame.
His room is as it was that day for thirteen years its stayed that way untouched and frozen forever in time since that tragic day in 89.
And as it plays its haunting sound tears are heard from miles around they're tears from families of those who fell awaiting the toll of the justice bell.
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Space Cowboy
Season Ticket Holder.
Fisherman's friend
Shake it baby.......
Posts: 1,424
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Post by Space Cowboy on Jan 15, 2005 10:11:57 GMT
A tear now rolls down my cheek after reading these.
R.I.P.
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