THE ROSE VENDOR 2000 (Satis Shroff) He comes with his apologetic Asian face A swarthy man selling roses In cafes, taverns, pubs and eating-places In the evenings When the shops have closed in Germany. He comes when you ‘re discussing politics He comes when you’re wooing your date. He comes with his roses, In Chinese, Greek and Italian restaurants Between bites of Peking duck, gyros Lasagne and Tiramisu. He thrusts his bunch of mauve roses Looks at your eyes and hers. You look away Or you say, ‘Nein Danke!’ Scared to look into his brown eyes, Eyes that almost plead to you To buy his roses. Wet eyes that remind you Of Fifi, your poodle. The rose vendor doesn’t utter a word. Does he have a tongue? Or is our tongue too difficult? Can’t he speak pidgin, this asylant? What brings him to our land? He isn’t allowed to work He’s probably not anerkannt. He’s intimidated, not integrated. He can only sell roses In cafes, taverns and pubs. ‘It’s good so, otherwise He’ll take my job,’ says a German. It doesn’t bother him to do odd jobs Washing dishes, folding napkins Pouring out drinks and fruit cocktails. He doesn’t mind being a portier in a hotel, Carrying other people’s bags, Thankful when he gets a tip. It doesn’t bother him To work in the hospital wards: Psychiatric, neurological or surgical, Helping disabled, obese German patients Carrying their urine-bottles, pans and pills. It doesn’t bother him one bit To work in factories that produce Chocolates, furniture and microchips. To inhale poisonous gases and work With lethal, carcinogenic chemicals. He does what they order him to do, For it’s again the epoch, Of inflation and recession, Of broken contracts, lost jobs, Split and patchwork families. Of people suddenly grown envious, Wary, jealous and fierce. The basic instinct in the Germans Breaks through. The rich, good German shows an ugly face. Who’s to blame for this economic mess? The sly politicians? Or the dumb, lobbyless aliens? The asylum-seekers from the Third World Or the Aussiedler from behind the Iron Curtain? The Aussiedler are ethnic Germans The aliens are not. Shall we throw bricks into Turkish shops? And smear swastikas on Jewish graves? Shall we burn books and works of art again? And put on brown shirts? A start has already made. In Rostock, Hoyerswerda and Mölln. Some even deny the Holocaust as a lie. The drums are beating now and then. The old Reichsflags are seen In the streets and stadions, And no longer in the attic. Bomber jackets, baseball bats Springerstiefel and skinheads Belong to the Zeitgeist. A new brown subculture is growing, Thanks to the electronic media, Warns the federal Verfassungsschutz. Conservative, pure, aryan to the core Skinheaded, blue-eyed, Arrogant and nationalistic Is that the neo-German of the year 2000? Quo vadis European Union? The ecu, the multiethnicity? A united Europe, one big world? Where’s the integration that was spoken of? Where’s the tolerance? Where is the Miteinander? Gone down the gutter? Yet there is hope in this Bundesrepublik, Hope of democratic rights. The constitution, fundamental laws, The paragraphs on human rights, Even though a good many still Hide behind them, And know how to bend them. Let us see what the election brings. Till then, let’s drink tea, And be nice to the Rose Cavalier, I mean the vendor of roses. © satisshroff, freiburg
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 10:31:04 +0000
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