42
Declared spirit,
impoverished
Declared
spirit, impoverished
Running
on the snow-iced edges
Of
civilization in truth bared bandaged
And
naked and starving, Freedom.
Who
alluded to this, in the strength
Of
words? Primo Levi.
I
am Sephardic. I might have known it
At
Terezin, when I ran, thinking of it,
And
fell, cutting a hand in the deep iced snow. O Loss, Anatol!
You
petty monger, searching for alike knowledge.
But
you live here. Would alike be surprised?
“Do
you but change the name / Of you
Is
said the same:” Horace.
Do
I aggrandize? I am not a murderer.
Am
I innocent, in other wise?
Yes.
May I judge? Yes.
Nothing
will tug me from me.
- Anatol Cordua (c) 2017
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