poem of berlin

This is part of a poem from berlin. Amy and I just got back from germany, and were really moved on every level by how exposed the wounds of europe are there--visibly and tangibly present in that city.

berlin, no sing or song--but a churning in
the neck, a grate, a rustling of bones and metal
over time.

still, here is europe's lament
here is the unhealed war's end
a type of buzzing silence

today we saw
a jesus statue in a bombed church
missing his right arm--the Arm of blessing
the Arm of protection-a Father's Arm really.

at night a one armed giant keeps moving
forward alone, with an unexplainable sense
of destiny saying,
Germany is not done!