For grief itself is love that has remained.

When we lose our love we can’t prepare
Our  first defences keep us  from despair
So when your neighbours see your stricken face
They turn and your new image is erased.

Alone in a bleak landscape, we shun change;
No new saucepans or we are  deranged
The world must be preserved, not changed at all
A memento of our love before the Fall.

To  distant lands, we’re sent to serve our time
In that place of edges, borderlines.
When language fails  we talk in metaphors
We symbolise the missing  one who’s died

But after Auschwitz, how can I  complain?
For grief itself is love that has remained.