By Richard Mather
By lamp and by oil, we hunger the hours
as the dusk's frost sets in. There is time:
The trucks to Treblinka are not ready yet
and there's bread to be had.
But the water and bowl
are for the washing of hands.
(It's what tradition commands.)
Fingers make moves in the silence of thought
like chess players at their difficult tables.
A mouth is turned open and another is shut,
and dusk in due course
is steadily swallowed,
with every crumb of affliction
consumed for the sake of Kiddush HaShem.
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