For amid the calls, the paeans to bloody coup-de-tats and revolutions and the,
Orders on the radio, is a broken static. It follows as three short cries, a pause,
Then three long wails, a pause, then ends with the three short cries rising again.
S.O.S. Save Our Souls. The sounds are the raspiest and keenest he has ever,
Heard. Alas, it comes broken. Nevertheless, it surfaces, over and over again.
Is he now a golem? An unfeeling marionette of doom to those whose only fault,
Is a different race, creed, belief or faith in the “wrong” deity/deities? Will he
Bloody his hands free volition to follow the path of his puppeteer’s virtues?
Will he cover his eyes (not only against the buffeting dusts of charred remains)?
Will he in act and omission, in false devotion, shatter his inviolable soul?
He has a choice. He can turn his back or allow that S.O.S call to continue on,
Tearing the very fabric of his being, to follow and pursue the daunting,
Quest for redemption or be the husk of a former self- and when broken,
Cast away as a shell-shocked burden. Yes indeed, the Good German will
Have to make one. That choice will define, if he indeed, is a “Good” one.