My children, My Children.
I know a man, brilliant.
Awake at night — sermons to the dark.
Ideas unknown.
Dreams not dreamt.
Visions unseen.
Silent men are dunces.
Morons.
Imbeciles.
Lobotomized.
Useless for good.
Myself.
Sitting always — wondering why I couldn’t walk.
Eyes shut — questioning why I couldn’t see.
A self-surrendering prisoner of war.
Below a coward — beneath the dead.
Older found his voice.
Fits and starts younger, yes.
Unwelcome thoughts — awkward speech.
Rejected as a Preacher.
Truncated ideas force fit into the conventional, the acceptable.
Not living.
Biologically existing.
Drowning alive.
One year I swore — let me die.
Childbirth is painful — did that happen?
I write now.
Riches flee I labor.
If one changes I win.
If words strike I am happy.
I draw blood — I smile.
The silent are allies to their enemies — their own prison guards.
I write — I live.
Happy.
Content.
Proud, yes.
The grave welcomes. Smile. Peace.
Not today — more to say.
When I go I discharge the debt.
The burden eternal.
I write that they live.
My children, my children.
Fritz Berggren, PhD
24 Oct 2020
“The destruction of our bloodline is evil. Europeans must stop walking into the cultural death camps of self-hatred. We must fight those pushing us toward self-extermination. Honoring Our Fathers and Mothers means we proudly bear descendants and imbue them with loyalty to our God, our greatness, our history, and our honor.”
perhaps in retirement.
Slavery remains a condition of the world.