In a quiet place, Elmira’s hills,
Where Twain and Lewis rest so still,
Two friends, one white, one black, we find,
In the company of time entwined.

One born free, a farmer’s son,
The other born where rivers run,
Each path unique, yet crossing here
Bound by respect, and hearts sincere.

When Twain’s kin faced a runaway’s flight,
Lewis, unflinching, braved the night,
Saved them both, at risk of loss,
A soul undaunted, a friend embossed.

A bond grew deep through words and days,
Religion, faith, and simple ways;
Twain’s books inscribed with warm intent,
To Lewis’ hands each page was sent.

And when Huck’s tale resumed its bend,
Perhaps it was this faithful friend
That brought Jim forth, not fear or shame
A man, not just a shadowed name.

Years after, on New York’s street,
A black man, white man, calmly greet,
In Twain’s eye, no spectacle near,
Only respect, undimmed, sincere.

He’d pondered race, the frail divide,
How law and custom shaped its pride,
In Huck’s and Wilson’s tales so bold,
A truth laid bare, a fiction told.

Now here they lie, in Elmira’s fold,
Two lives interred as tales retold.

Mark and John, side by side, rest
In friendship’s bond, forever blessed.

Created by
MarkWaldrop

Taken from an article written by
Harlow Arquette
Member of Strange and Curious Things, Facebook