| |
It would have been,
then, or even now
a real privilege
to know the Belsen boy.
Or, would it be
within the possibilities
to have a peek
at that old photograph.
The similarity between
the man who does resemble
a stick and nothing more
and one brave soul
who has been found
and whipped
by Cancer
show clearly in
the bathroom mirror.
Each morning
he looks and acts
the same.
Because he's always there,
reminding me
of ethnic cleansing.
He loves my soapy hands
and giggles at the foam
which is a make-believe
it shows the man before,
like an old photograph
from times long gone.
There's colour in his face
and lips, so ruby red
they speak.
A tiny bubble blows
to me as if to say
I'm just a bit of soap,
a thought for you.
We take our time,
the two of us,
and call each other names,
like Belsen boy
it is a slippery game
watched over by
the ancient mirror.
And as the bounty of
our soap just clings
and slowly fades
we get a glimpse
into the depth of
two brave souls.
Herbert Nehrlich
|
|
User Rating: |
|
1.0
/10
(1 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend