The President went to Hiroshima,
the place of the first atomic attack.
He carried his heart in an old knapsack.

He went where no sitting president
ever ventured before, journeyed
through time to a long ago war.

He stood at the very place where death
fell from the sky, where the mushroom cloud
sucked up the earth, rose higher than high.

His words poured forth like a passionate poem,
a poem filled with power, as he placed
a white wreath on a sea of white foam.

He bowed before the city’s eternal flame,
cried out for a world deeply in pain,
swore we must not let it happen again.

We must choose our vantage point well,
above the bomb or beneath,  On one side
is hubris, on the other is grief.