When there is sound there is some silence

And in peace there might be violence

When there is poverty of mind’s reflection

The individual ego strives for brutal action

And human’s soul so kind and good

Becomes a rather seldom brood

But this is all long forgotten now

Ninety six years all in a row

Unpleasant memories are mute

Why would he pay any tribute

He jumps to self driven conclusions

That add up to his self delusions

Lies have an intrinsic kind of magic

But with old age they become tragic

Oh, how he marched, young man so keen

The most giant opus the world has seen

Where flags waved evil black on red

The movement wants good people dead

Proud they where under the swastika

When the Fuehrer bawled from Austria

Broken was the republic of Weimar

But he the young dynamic climber

Followed the movement with finesse

He had no regrets, nothing to confess

He never ever gave a single thought

Why millions suffered or got shot

He was a parvenue and a lucky guy

A front man shouter don’t ask why

He turned his own flag with no hesitation

To help form the heroic German nation

But after the destructive war of wrath

He turned once more and held his breath

And soon he crawled and climbed again

With help from comrades in a long chain

He wanted glory and so much more

His tool was now money instead of war

And luck came within a single year

He started a proper business career

He was a mentor for the affluence of growth

Without ever breaking his secret oath

To the ancient dictatorship regime

And his immortal race supreme

Now he lives in a retirement home

His friends are all dead, he is alone

Unwanted memories of stomping boots

Follow him back to his brown roots

He begs for mercy to his lord

When thoughts of pain he long ignored

Become so real and so intense

And he without any self defense

Looks into a pleading mother’s eyes

And sees her child when it dies

From his bullet from his hand

He can never break this band

This cross linked net of destiny

Now asks him for his final fee

Still on his death bed he weeps and morns

Self pity is now his crown of thorns

But with the sound there comes the silence

His haunting pictures come from violence

Finally death opens his ice cold portal

The incorrigible turns out to be mortal

And mute in the dark grave of history

Auschwitz becomes a forgotten mystery

For the entire future generation

Of grandpa’s glorious proper nation.

© Written by: Anja Jaenicke, Feb.11. 2019

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About Anja Jaenicke

Anja Jaenicke is a poet, painter, screenwriter, filmmaker and Thinker cum Arte from Germany. She started her career as a film actress for German film and television and was awarded with film awards like the German Film Award, the Bavarian Film Award and the BAMBI. In the last years Anja has written poetry and articles for magazines and published several lyric books like: 'The Second Face, 'Ajna-The Book of Immortality' and 'Water &Earth”. This year she was awarded as 'Distinguished Visionary of the Year 2018' by the prestigious VedIQ Guild Foundation. In her spare time Anja loves to take long walks with her dog through the Bavarian countryside and listens to the voice of nature wherein everything else is included.
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