The Official Liverpool FC Thread [Vol 7]
Discussion
I'd just like to pay my respects to the people of Liverpool, your great football club but most of all to the families of the 96.
Don't think I ever wanted Liverpool to win the league before but this year would make a fitting tribute to those fans that didn't come home.
Good luck,
Tony (MUFC).
Don't think I ever wanted Liverpool to win the league before but this year would make a fitting tribute to those fans that didn't come home.
Good luck,
Tony (MUFC).
so called said:
I'd just like to pay my respects to the people of Liverpool, your great football club but most of all to the families of the 96.
Don't think I ever wanted Liverpool to win the league before but this year would make a fitting tribute to those fans that didn't come home.
Good luck,
Tony (MUFC).
Don't think I ever wanted Liverpool to win the league before but this year would make a fitting tribute to those fans that didn't come home.
Good luck,
Tony (MUFC).
I wasn't born when it happened but from stories and footage I've seen over the years I can't begin to imagine what the families and people at Hillsborough went through.
Hopefully one day justice is done and the families of the 96 can have closure.
And rivalry aside it would be a fitting tribute for Liverpool to lift the title this year.
This says it all...
RIP
YNWA
Hopefully one day justice is done and the families of the 96 can have closure.
And rivalry aside it would be a fitting tribute for Liverpool to lift the title this year.
This says it all...
RIP
YNWA
I's a spurs fan (don't laugh!), and this day always resonates with me after going to Hillsborough in '81 when 38 Spurs fans suffered crush injuries, including broken limbs. The scenes were very reminiscent of '89. I have someone from the new enquiry travelling down from Warrington to N London tomorrow to interview me as they still have the letter I sent after the disaster recounting what happened in '81. They are investigating anything they may have lead to the tragedy, and I was staggered when I got the phone call to ask if I'd be prepared to speak with them. Hopefully this will finally see an end to this for the famililies.
Any other nonsense aside we are all football fans, the 96 were simply that, football fans. On days like today its good to remember that.
RIP the 96
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.
© Dave Kirby 2002
RIP the 96
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.
© Dave Kirby 2002
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