TO MOTHER TIGERS

To the mother tigers over time, defenders of their young like the cat carrying her kittens, one by one from the burning Pentagon on 9/11. Luckily, she was observed, acknowledged, rescued (with her beloved litter) and recovered from her injuries, a testament to the forever maternal.

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake