Poem By Herbert Nehrlich
It was a simple barricade,
Arabic letters, exclamation marks,
a hot, oppressive wind, pregnant
with stinging sand and camel dung.
Passport control in hands so filthy
they stained the paper in the heat
with grease and dye of purple.
'An Infidel', he uttered to the other,
'A German, though, what do you know? '
A closer look at all the visas, stamped
and stuck inside the pages, then a look
of consternation, perhaps of sadness.
'I see you have not been to Israel,
it is a good and pleasant finding,
a sign which will improve your situation,
say, would you have a photo with you
of that great leader of the world,
who died so early, through circumstance? '
I was perplexed and asked with worried eyes,
that's when he raised his arm, saluting Heil.