WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

 

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 and 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…

–Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni

 

 

from the book: Best Loved Poems of the American People