Richard Blanco's Poetry Pays Homage to American Experience

American poet is the youngest in history to read at inaugural ceremony.
6:27 | 01/21/13

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Transcript for Richard Blanco's Poetry Pays Homage to American Experience
Mr. President. -- vice president. America. -- Today. One sun rose on us today. Kendall over our shores. Peeking over the -- he's. Greeting the faces of the Great Lakes. Spreading. A simple truth across the great plains. And charging across the Rockies. One light. Waking up rooftops. Under each one a story. Told -- our silent gestures moving across windows. My face. Your face. Millions of faces in mornings -- each 11 yawning to life. Christian and doing into our day. The pencil yellow school buses. The rhythm of traffic lights fruit stands apples and -- and oranges a raid like rainbows. Begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper bricks or milk. Teaming over highways. Alongside us. On our way. To clean tables. Read ledgers. Or save lives. To teach geometry. Ordering up groceries. As my mother did. For twenty years. So I could write this home. For all of us today. All of us. As vital as -- one light we move through. The same light I'm black boards with lessons for the day. Equations dissolved. His street to question what Adams imagined. The I have a dream -- we all keep dreaming. -- the impossible vocabulary. Of sorrow. That -- explain. Be empty desks. Of twenty children. Marked absent today. And forever. Many prayers. But one lights. Reading colored to stained glass windows life into the faces of bronze statues. Warm front of the steps of our museums and park benches. As mothers watched children slide and today. One from ground. Our grounds. Rooting us to every stalk of corn. Every head of -- sewn by sweat and hands. Hands -- cold or planting Windmills in desert -- hill tops that keep us warm. -- is digging trenches routing pipes and cables hands. As -- as my father's. Cutting sugar cane so my brother and I could have books. And shoes. The dust of farms and deserts. Cities and planes. Mangled by one wind. Our Brett. -- Here it through the days gorgeous dean of honking cabs. Buses launching down avenues the symphony -- footsteps. Guitars and screeching subways. The unexpected songbird. On your clothes line. Here squeaky playground swings trains whistling twisters across cafe tables. Here the doors and we open each day for each other. Saying. Hello. So along. -- -- I don't know. Howdy. -- -- -- Or. -- the us. And the language my mother taught me. In every language. Spoken in 21 win to carrying our lives -- -- prejudice. As these words break from my lips. One sky. Since the appellation since the -- claim to their majesty. And the Mississippi in Colorado. Worked their way to the C. Saying the work of our hands. -- steel into bridges finishing one more report for the boss on time. Stitching and another wounded or uniform. The first brush -- on a portrait. -- the last floor on the Freedom Tower. Jutting into the sky. That yields to our resilience. And one sky. Toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work. Some days guessing at the weather. Of our lives and some days giving thanks for a love. That loves you back. Sometimes praising a mother. Who knew how to give. -- for giving a father. Who couldn't give what you wanted. We head. Home. Through the gloss of brain where weight of snow. -- the plum blush of dusk. But always. Always. Home. Always. Under one sky. -- sky. And always. One moon. Like a silent Strom tapping on every rooftop and every window of one country. All of us facing the stars. Hope. A new constellation. Waiting for us to -- -- Waiting for us to name -- Together.

This transcript has been automatically generated and may not be 100% accurate.

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