Blitzkrieg 1939,
Blood and metal, lead shower day,
The deafening music of disaster rang through the dust,
Disorienting movements of survival,
A defensive dance-off with Death, And for what?
The trophy of living through the slaughter?

A father defends for his kids,
A husband fights for his wife,
A believer dances for his God.

A God that allowed the marching bands to play their dark tunes.

But even so, he continued the movements,
The chaotic rhythms of battle,
Arms raised, arms loaded,
Swan Lake filled with blood.

The husband, the father,
The Jew who kept fiddling,
Even after his troupe of troopers stopped their ballet,
He wouldn’t let his curtains close.

The finesse of fate followed his lead.

His composer motioned to the singers:
Scream the melodies,
“Take the glide across the border line.”

A flee from the Polish plains,
A couru from crisis,
He waltzed the worn wasteland away.

The penetrating music of cannons and screams Faded behind, sat forever in mind.
Retired in Russia,
The Devil would not dance so close again…

…Not until he danced long enough to pass on the moves.
And after he played his last step,
His last show,
Every soul he performed his dance for
My father, my aunts, my cousins,
Tossed our bouquets to his stage’s shut red velvet screen,
Crying chrysanthemums and remembered roses, What a performance it was.

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