I, who know the anguish of the living
And who, wearied by grief, often bend
With pain at the sight of my brethren grieving,
Can have no fear of life’s inevitable end.
I, who know the agony of a soul’s death—
A soul that was tortured again and again,
Cannot dread the body’s last welcome breath;
But rather its beatific peace I would scan.
I who died with every innocent life lost,
Who felt the torment of every groan
Of the maimed in the global holocaust,
At my own funeral cannot and will not moan.
What is death to me, a lacerated refugee,
But a grand entrance into Eternity?

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