Í minningu 96-menninga.

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Þennan dag fyrir 21 ári síðan lögðu þúsundir Liverpool aðdáenda af stað frá heimilum sínum til Sheffieldborgar að horfa á liðið sitt spila undanúrslitaleik í FA-bikarnum.

96 þeirra sneru ekki aftur og létu lífið í Hillsborough-harmleiknum.

Við beygjum höfuðið þeirra vegna í dag, þau mega aldrei gleymast!

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  16. Hef ekki séð betri lýsingu á þeirri sorg sem þessi dagur merkir í hugum svo margra. Þetta er eftir Dave Kirby og er samið 2002.

    **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 the Yorkshire 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 thirteen 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
    it’s 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 it’s 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.**

  21. “Við beygjum höfuðið þeirra vegna í dag”

    Er ekki óþarfi að fara svona með okkar ástkæra ylhýra?

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