Who Are My People? by Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni
This is one of the poems I’m going to take to breakfast with the ladies tomorrow. (Sadly, said breakfast will be cut short due to group meeting at 9am. Grrr!)
Who Are My People?
By Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni
My people? Who are they?
I went into the church where the congregation
Worshiped my God. Were they my people?
I felt no kinship to them as they knelt there.
My people! Where are they?
I went into the land where I was born,
Where men spoke my language…
I was a stranger there.
“My people,” my soul cried. “Who are my people?”
Last night in the rain I met an old man
Who spoke a language I do not speak,
Which marked him as one who does not know my God.
With apologetic smile he offered me
The shelter of his patched umbrella.
I met his eyes… And then I knew…
