To inspire reflections upon WWII

The Puppeteer: A Poem for Elie Wiesel

Dance, he commanded me

With strings at my elbows and knees

Ties leading to a wooden cross

Furiously, he yanked and pulled

Until I was worn and beat from taut cords

The other puppets continued to dance

While I struggled and sweated splintering

Pieces of wood and dust

Rest, he commanded me

Flinging me into a heap of dead marionettes

I lay impatiently and uncomfortably

As the smell of rotten wood mixed with resin

Tickled my sculpted nose

Is there no one who can repair that which is broken

Useless instruments and dancing fools

Of less worth than sand

Silence, he commanded me

Pouring on Romanian gasoline

I closed my eyes and my mouth

As a match was lit to end all dancing

Did you think I would have words

For you, Master and Creator

And as the fumes

And the smoke filled

Chosen, he called me

Out of a chest full of weary wooden ashes

I was displaced and I was removed

Sitting alone on the edge of a dusty stage

Where I once was a star

My wooden palm held such a badge

Oh God, I do not know you anymore

Who authored such a world