Classic Poem

A boy of thirteen wears the pitch black pants
of German scouts. Some women look with glee
and try to drown his cries. They curse in chants.
They’re Jewish guards from State Security
who are too full of hate to want to hear
that he’s too young to be a Nazi, his face
the hairless face of innocence, a tear
on his cheek his only shield. And still, they race
to pock his tender flesh with cigarettes,
delighting Lilith-like in the cruel scene.
They almost feel the pangs of something higher,
but they have come this far without regrets:
They douse his light blond hair with gasoline
and free him with the mercy of their fire.