Auschwitz Rose

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,

a rose like Sharon’s, lovely as her name.

The world forgot her,

                                   and is not the same.

I still love her and command this sacred fire

to keep her memory exalted flame,

unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

 

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles ...

They sleep alike -- diminutive and tall,

the innocent, the “surgeons.”

                                               Sleeping, all.

 

Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,

if accidents of coloration, gall

my heart no less. 

                            Amid thick weeds and muck

there lies a rose man’s crackling lightning struck;

the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.

Soon I’ll bed there and bid the world “Good Luck.”

 

Originally published in a slightly different version by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Black Medina, Voices Israel, Other Voices International, Verse Weekly, Poetry Renewal Magazine, Mindful of Poetry, The Eclectic Muse, The Wandering Hermit, FreeXpression (Australia), Poetry Life & Times, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), Trinacria, Pennsylvania Review, Poems About, Litera (UK), Yahoo Buzz, Got Poetry and de Volksrant Blog (Holland)