Were not that pond there in the way
From Kiel to Illinois,
I’d know another person that
Would go to Chicago.

I’d say—Quick! Let me pack my things!
I’ve got to hear and see
How they speak Platt out in the West,
Out there by the Great Lakes!

Where hunters used to sleep by night
With fox and owl about,
Where earlier wild battle cries
Were heard and frightened folks,

That’s where our dear, old native tongue
Invites thousands to go
To gather for Low German chats
Out there in Illinois.

Yes, it is weird and marvelous!
Tell me—who could have known?
Three decades back folks would have laughed
Had one suggested this.

They would have said, “In German lands
They are ashamed of Platt.
It’s near extinction, given up
By all but country folks.”

“They teach as early as in school
That it’s so coarse, so rough—
At best it goes with cooking kale,
With pots and plows and stuff.”

But those that had to leave their homes,
Driven by want, by fate,
Those that were forced to emigrate
To try their luck elsewhere,

Away from native land and kin,
Across the ocean wide:
When there they hear Low German words—
My God! How stunned they are!

No music sounds as sweet to them
Nor does a nightingale.
At any moment sparkling tears
Might trickle down their cheeks.

And when we came and sang anew
The long forgotten sound,
For them it was more than a tune,
Than poetry and song.

They soon sensed the familiar tone,
Like reveille the sound.
For them it seemed like a loud cry:
“There, boys! And now hold fast!”

Our native tongue invited them,
Thousands of them to meet
For friendly chats and fair pursuits:
To join Low German clubs,

To hold on to their German ways
In that new land of theirs,
To restore vigor to their hearts,
To strengthen head and hand.

But we, the minstrels here back home,
Are sensing from afar
The resonance, like fond salutes,
With pride and with delight.

They do reach us, as if by phone,
Their cheers, touching our hearts.
I feel that is the best reward
A poet can receive.

There is an echo. Yes, it calls
(For what I strive and wake)
All those back home, all half asleep,
“Hold on to ways and tongue!”

Though I can not, as I would like,
Join them to celebrate,
At least I’ll send them my regards,
My wishes and my love,

Perhaps even my oldest son,
(A tall fellow like me)
With lowlands heart and with long legs,
Resembling me, of course.

And here’s what I say: “Keep up
Low German ways and tongue!
Maintain it that it blooms and thrives
And grows more beautiful!”