Poetry

[Subtitled]

B”H

What is horror? Another man with a knife. What is the toll of a landscape in anger? Rocks do not appreciate a sunset. What is a child without his hunger for life? The people who cannot shelter their shattered eyes? What is the purpose of a winter’s mauve betrayal? A society that goes barefoot in the snow? What is a question without a point? A statement without declaration? What is the sound of a teardrop in G-d’s Hand? This pestilence which ignores the seedless trees? What broke in a home if G-d can’t make it mend? What is the lies of the sky? A new horizon’s underbelly? Unction without order in the fever of the lung’s grey day? If I could be lonely again I would not despair of this privilege. I have seen the wraith of the privilege of living unawares. But to be so conscious as to know the smell of thin bloodlines is to know there is nothing to stand for. I would make a pact with the men of the flood to not struggle to emerge, not protect the air from the water. Land lies not between us but only an enemy in fear. I will remember you, shadows, from abroad. We never meant to be a city—or unearthed.

++

Said a German to Me:
“You know, my friend, the Shoah is over?”

(Rabbi Ronnie Cahana, for Yom HaShoah 5777)

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