Who am I? They often tell me I stepped from my cells confinement Calmly, cheerfully, firmly, Like a squire from his country house. Who am I? They often tell me I used to speak to my warders Freely and friendly and clearly As though it was mine to command. Who am I? They also tell me I bore the days of misfortune Equably, smilingly, proudly Like one accustomed to win. Am I really all that which other men tell of? Or am I only what I myself know of myself? Restless and longing and sick like a bird in a cage, Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat. Yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds, Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness Tossing in expectation of great events Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, Faint and ready to say farewell to it all? Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved. Who am I? They mock me these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine. Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Posted on: Sun, 07 Jul 2013 00:38:33 +0000
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