Night Calls

New arrivals coming every day to Germany and to other parts of Europe. There’s a fear that’s sweeping the land, there is a fear of nationalizing to show ones support of your mother land. “You’re with us or” as the saying goes. Many are forgetting their mother land was not Germany, shamefully they watch in protest, for these new people come from the  same lands that their fathers did many years ago in their quest for a better life. I listen as they turn their backs to their fellow countrymen who are now seeking shelter, I watch amazed as fellow countrymen say no we have enough to people who need a hand.  So came the poem The Poppy was a gift from a customer who loves my flowers.

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Coward

Night calls,

I hear her whisper,

but I turn my head in fear.

Silently I hide beneath my covers

ashamed of who I am.

For I no better than the rest,

turn my back and walk away.

I the son of immigrants,

too good to lend a hand.

Night calls,

and there I am alone

with all my shame.

Dare I stand and offer help,

or turn my back

and run.

I the son of immigrants,

have forgotten who I am.

While those who come,

just like my family,

I turn my back to them.

Night calls I hear her whisper…

coward once again.

 

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