Herbert Nehrlich (04 October 1943 / Germany)
What is it then that binds us to the mob,
and asks so much of our most precious inner lust?
Will they relent in their demanding heartbreak throb
or would plain sanity whip up a healing gust
of soft humanity and altruistic wallow
is this reality, god-given, an excuse
or fraying vanity with braids so very shallow
that even devils do consider it a ruse?
Could we be masters then, of life's intriguing plan
to sweep away the dust o f Cinderella's ashes
or will our fellow bastards fight us as they can
with ill-won skirmishes and convoluted dashes?
And I think not, so says the meek and humble vagrant
who sits and watches with detached and hollow eyes
he could not care about a body somewhat fragrant
and only welcomes little weevils and all flies.
Are we so righteous that the bums can teach us fools
that all those animals in zoos and in our beds
and even plants in pots who follow different rules
are far superior than the famous Mister Ed?
I have no answers, guys, perhaps you ask your preacher
or politicians, for the riddle's whole equation
I am no baker and no butcher and no teacher
perhaps a maker of great chopsticks, proudly Asian.
Comments about this poem (Perhaps Chopsticks by Herbert Nehrlich )
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