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He was a good man to the core,
conservative and full of rules.
A patient preacher - and a bore,
a classroom teacher in my school.
French, Latin, also History,
his suit was striped, with handkerchief.
He'd brotherly and sisterly
teach every pupil The Belief.
In values, principles and study,
the love of books was a condition,
to be regarded as a buddy,
restricted though, 'twas his decision.
We loved him, all of us.
Though didn't like it that he checked
on every paper that we wrote on.
But, heck, the man had our respect.
He saw his mission rather basic:
You teach and ascertain success.
His thinking was so multiphasic
just sensing it caused us great stress.
And fond he was of forcing rules,
he found exceptions rather false,
and maintained that we would be fools
if we accepted different calls.
He lived his life without the flashes
that most of us aspire to.
And all that's left now is his ashes,
but listen, what I'm telling you:
Is that this man who cared for others,
whose purpose was a grass roots effort,
who was our fathers and our mothers,
a hero for the boy from Treffurt.
He went to school one lonely night,
to look up some obscure disaster,
in ancient books, by feeble light,
he studied hard 'til he had mastered
all laterally connected facts,
and likely links to other figures.
This kept his wondrous mind intact,
he loved the work with all its rigors.
Just prior to the rooster's call
he locked the doors, set out for home,
while thinking of the tragic fall
of the great Empire of Rome.
His step was swift, straight up the alley
that led to modest three-room housing.
The fog was rising in the valley,
when hell broke loose, the devil rousing.
Out of the darkness now emerged
a shadow of disgusting features.
And soon their hurried paths converged,
confronting criminal and teacher.
It is not known what then transpired,
he likely tried to talk of reason.
He would have asked just what inspired
to rob folks in the Christmas season.
In any case, he thought it prudent
to teach this thug, make him aware.
But it is clear that his last student
would never listen, never care.
He bashed him with a piece of wood
of heavy Northern German Oak,
and smashed his skull in so he could
be certain that the man would croak.
He died right there, on cobblestones.
His last view, which was slowly fading
was Luther's Burial House of Bones,
and death had come, no more evading.
The thief, who'd graduated here, to killer
of a handsome mind,
he found the money, 'twas a mere
five Groschen, not enough for beer.
He washed the blood off all his fingers,
his eyes then roamed to nearby hills.
The chorus of the Mastersingers
was drifting through the frosty chills,
from Wartburg Castle where so many
great minds had rested and created.
Like Goethe, Luther and von Horn,
where student rebels oft debated
the future. And where Scorn was born.
Scorn of the thinkers toward masses
of ignoramus-like persuasion.
Against those who sat on their asses
and waited for the next occcasion,
where they could grab some extra taxes,
while loudly claiming public need.
Surrounded by their men with axes.
The rebels sought to have them freed.
And so it was that nerds did care
for all of mankinds great concerns.
It's sad that people never dare
to act until their city burns.
That's why our killer didn't pick
a tax collector or his masters.
He killed a teacher with a stick-
the world still suffers these disasters.
For: L
Note: Wartburg Castle was the home of Luther when he translated the bible. The area's history boasts of greats like Goethe, Bach and was, of course, the birthplace of Student Revolutions.The above story is true.
Treffurt, in the shadow of Wartburg Castle, is the hometown of the author.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: teacher, history, school, fog, christmas, respect, hero, success, money, future, city, lonely, sad, work, house, people, home, death, light, graduate
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