poem of berlin

This is part of a poem from berlin. Amy and I just got back from germany, and were really moved on every level by how exposed the wounds of europe are there–visibly and tangibly present in that city.

berlin, no sing or song–but a churning in

the neck, a grate, a rustling of bones and metal

over time.

still, here is europe’s lament

here is the unhealed war’s end

a type of buzzing silence

today we saw

a jesus statue in a bombed church

missing his right arm–the Arm of blessing

the Arm of protection-a Father’s Arm really.

at night a one armed giant keeps moving

forward alone, with an unexplainable sense

of destiny saying,

Germany is not done!

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