0.2

He stood, everyday, at the window

At the window, with never a stir

His eyes, ghostly and gazing

His gaze, steady and sure

A boy of no more than eleven

Ghostly and gazing and grim

His hands, raised at the window

His fingers, shaking and slim

We asked him, “For what do you wait here?”

He answered with four warbled words

He merely said “Mother said stay here,”

So quiet, I’m not sure I heard

Everyday for a month would he come here

Everyday would he silently stand

Everyday, to wait for his mother

The boy with the yellow-star band

Then one day, not standing but lying

Flat on his face in the street

With a swastika drawn on his forehead

And a puddle of blood at his feet

But I swear on my life he comes back here

His outline a faint, fuzzy blur

HIs eyes, ghostly and gazing

His gaze, steady and sure.

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