Past the Protestant church,
we walk through the gate
over the River Fecht.
secular pilgrims
of the straight and narrow.
Our trail is all torn up–
green turves overturned.
All the signs of wild boar
foraging for grubs
in the farmers’ farrow.
In Trois Épis the air
is clean, cool, and fresh.
Bikers have dismounted,
rest, review their ride:
they climbed like an arrow.
A huge medical spa
distracts me from our path.
On the left are Germans
interred from World War I and II:
true voices from the barrow.
O double- eagle
of our Fatherland,
spread out your wings
so you may allow me
to be like the stars-
which-know-no destruction,
like the stars-
which-know-no-weariness
and not to die
over again in this cemetery.
Can you believe we’re lost? Again?
Like frustrated wraiths,
we walk in our own dark woods
without Virgil as a guide.
At least it’s all down hill.
By a school near the town
a young woman helps us chill
with directions. Not a frown
for me: Kaysersberg’s a thrill!
Got it?
