Auschwitz, All Hallows
04/28/2026 14:58h
Look, we have made
a counterpoint
of white chrysanthemums,
a dauntless path
of death-will-not-part-us petals
and revering light;
even here,
even here
before the once-wolfish ovens,
the desecrating wall
where you were shot,
the shrike-stern cells
where you were bruised
and emptied of your time-bound beauty—
you of the confiscated shoes
and swift-shorn hair,
you who left,
as sobering testament, the scuffed
luggage of utter hope
and harrowing deception.
Come back, teach us.
From these fearsome barracks
and inglorious fields
flecked with human ash,
in the russet-billowing hours
of All Hallows,
let the pianissimo
of your truest whispering
(vivid as the crunched frost
of a forced march)
become a slowly blossoming,
ever-voluble hearth
revealing to us
(the baffled, the irresolute,
the war torn, the living)
more of the fire
and attar of what it means
to be human.