My father was a butcher
a shop in our hometown
the torches lit the street
as the shadows washed the ground
I do not blame you, Hershel
or the words that Goebbels said
only Hate could break those windows
two-thousand people dead
My father was a butcher
they threw a brick through his shop
The glass collapsed in pieces
shattering my soul
although the wood went up in flames
my heart remained whole
My father held me close
my sister was not found
I swear I saw a crying ghost
as they burned our shul to the ground
If I never find my sister
my eyes may never close
in hopes that they will see her
her eyes in ragged clothes
I bit my lip and cursed
these hateful bitter thieves
My father was a butcher
but never such as these
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