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Personal Note:

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Poem

I.
My whole body was trembling in shock
My blood, as if flowing back to my heart, dizzied
My vision as I kept on
In my delirium to aid the young man spitting
up his own organs beside me.

His organs are my organs.
The sound was clear and very loud and
My leg was gone. And if I was so permitted
I was to rage on for the Lord on one.
For to rage on I must.

II.
This passionate young man, Adolf,
Exciting them all among beer and music, politics and games.
Straining his voice.
What do they want me to say?
His voice is my voice.
And he is just a boy, and I just a messenger.
The crowd before us like wet clay pleading for shape.

Then let it be so, I will try,
For to rage on I must.

III.
Only my voice with Him now and the damp
Stone that surrounds high above in this prison
With suited men loaded with guns below among
Trampled flowers that carried my name across
A still-molding country and
His guns are my guns, and His name wants my name,
And I will give it to Him because
Still! Still! Still I rage on.

Though no one is here
                                  to hear.
So I pray. I pray still.

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