SONG OF MY PEOPLE

It flows on the Rhine and passes castles
where many German kings and vassals
hold their pompous courts and masquerades.
It goes on to the farmlands, where rosy-cheeked maids
move their hands to the song of my people.

Martin Luther hammers it as he nails to the door
his theses, telling the Church to do more
to meet the needs of the people in the burgs.
In the small, small town of Wittenburg,
Luther sings the song of my people.

It hums in the simple meeting house
so softly it wouldn’t disturb a mouse.
It whispers as gently as a breeze
of plans to go to England’s colonies
to save the song of my people.

It ebbs and flows in time to the boat’s sway
that carries them across the Atlantic gray.
It reaches the new world’s shores at last.
In Pennsylvania, my people find peace steadfast.
The colonies ring with the song of my people.

It moves in time to the Susquehanna River
and to the plows that till fields by the acre.
It clops in time to the horses’ hooves
riding along steadily with the buggies smooth.
It continues, the song of my people.

The modern world now closes in on me
with its science and technology.
I wonder what my place there will be.
Come what may, I’ll forever be
the keeper of the song of my people.

Song of My People, written by beanerywriters blog visitor Barb, was first published in Into the Foothills, A Publication of the Foothills Writers 2001.