On Sundays, God took over the silence,
from the church came his angry voice:
the organ, heard in the entire village
where everything seemed forbidden.
But my mother hung out her washing
as it had gotten dirty on Sundays as well,
and she would ride her bike in spite
of the parson, who was in church anyway.
Hell and devil couldn’t bother her anymore,
not after all that happened,
not after that cruel war. (Where was He then?)
The happy heathen, she was free now.
“Your mind is yours,” she taught me.
“No one can keep you from thinking what you want.”
I celebrate my freedom. And thank
my free-spirited mother.