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She knew that the men, the ones with souls stolen by the state, were coming.
But there was no way for her to know what that ending would bring.
I see a photo of her pensive depth; her amber eyes foresaw something:
The fate that a mass mob would impose; a life onto which she would cling.
Across the great cities of Europe, a vast sandstorm dried the land,
And soon blood would seep through the cracks of rubble and dust.
Ancestors imbued in each cell of her body, a Jewish star on a leather band,
The people of her own country had risen; her neighbors she could not trust.
In camps that had been constructed, an insidious experiment would take place.
Beginning with forced working, she would see the sickness of imagination;
For when man is compelled towards utopia, some vision of an ideal state,
He will lose all empathy for the people that stand in it's subordination.
Her thin, rose shaded lips, ambiguously parting at the corner,
Produced an eery aura, of a silky solemn stain -- the mood still vivid today.
Her simple austere beauty compels me to the oceanside, where I am her mourner.
For her fathers are my fathers and I hope her face will return to live more fully someday.