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The Good German Part 1

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Below is the poem entitled The Good German Part 1 which was written by poet George Anos. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The Good German Part 1

There stood the Good German. He is proud. There was also a man,
Behind the drab uniforms. The one who was plain, but whose,
Heart beat fervently and yearned for glory. When proud marches,
Passed his way, their colours blazing and beckoning, he turned,
Red, black, green; a rainbow it seems. But he never turned yellow.

He gaped at the insignias and symbols, imbued with power by,
Oratories and make believe fallacies. Caught in the maelstrom,
Of emotions and fervour, he heeded their calls. Puppet strings, 
Appearing as ethereal wings to his fooled perceptions rose as high ,
As his eye can see. When he wore the uniform, it was his hands,
That wove it to the sinews of his shoulders; the oaths bound him. 

He is an archangel, a protector of ideals, principles or men’s,
Religions. He can do no wrong, or so he thought, when orders, 
Went his way and he “executes” them. His wings he believes are,
His, but the height of his soaring is determined by the whims of,
Vile giants, who steers upon crashing rocks, lost ships of history. 

He is Alpha-one up to Zulu-Infinity, reliant on his weapons,
And battlefield ferocity. Always, he hoped, a worthy protector,
Of those he values the most. He is everywhere, a waiting sentinel,
On wherever scorched or inhospitable parcel of earth maybe. Peace,
They tell him, is to be forced on everybody. Or cleansed if need be.

He is in the army, the spy networks, the police force, the special 
And killing machine units. He yearns to prove his value and worth,
Blinded by the brass his masters wore, and the warrior’s ethos that
Stirs his soul. He is everywhere. From the trenches of Africa to the
Cockpits of Western aerial wings, there he lies and patiently waits.

He hears the orders, loud and clear. The radio is lustful and deafening, 
The signals and codes turn firm and clinical, no longer imbued with the,
Warmth of brotherly feelings. He wades then, into blood. He sees then,
The sparkle dim from the innocent’s eyes. He smells the stench of burnt
Flesh consigned to fiery dustbins; an oven he plays a part in the making.

He waded in and did not retreat. He is in service of humanity, immersed
On  trainings and indoctrinations. The confusion that assails, they tell him,
Is only the enemies’ psychological offensives. ‘You are armed’, his masters
Shout from raised pulpits and dais, ‘with righteousness and truth’. But
the evil unfolding before his ‘good’ eyes, sends him to falseness’ reeling.  

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