e only way out is through.









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Who Are My People 

Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni  


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 an 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...

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