(WHITIES schreiben für "arme Opfer":) 

MOON CRICKET 

The sun would set, the shackles bound, 
But in the dark, we found our sound. 
They called us names to dim our light, 
Yet we became the song of night. 

A chorus born of grief and pain, 
That rose above the iron chain. 
Through every storm, our voices grew, 
To claim the dawn and skies anew. 

No longer hidden by the moon, 
We are the authors of the tune. 
With unbowed heads and spirits free, 
We sing our own proud destiny. 

Ebenezer Quaak / 29.02.2026