Oh, G‑d, The Plates Whisper of Death

Dedicated to the memory of the six million kedoshim

 

The food smelled great with flavor,

I was to be served first, as a favor,

The chef was doing his very best,

For I was different than the rest.

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

I was an American Jewish boy on a family visit,

To see the great Teutonic land on exhibit,

At dinner when the food was set down to eat,

I was strangely filled with a sense of dread and defeat.

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

All around me were friendly German faces of glee,

Observing an American Jewish boy with proper manners, we see,

The spoon, fork and knife all so delightfully set,

Starched bright napkin, tall beer mug, "Ya Vol", a ready bet.

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

Now, suddenly I was seized with dread,

My body shaking, my skin exploding red,

I wondered what is happening to me,

Why this possession, it should not be.

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

As I thrust my posture, body straight forward,

Unexplainably, I began to shake, my hands moving quickly toward,

A spirit of fear of what's uncontrollably taking place,

I knocked my place setting off in disgrace.

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

Oh, the plates, yes the plates, smashing asunder,

The people stopped smiling and stared with wonder,

I looked at the plate, it says, "Bone China-Made in Germany,"

To me, a Jew, it reads-"From the dust of the Auschwitz chimney."

 

I thought, "Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper of death."

 

How did my feeble Jewish body know,

That from holy ashes the dust did grow,

The faces around me do not smile,

Suspiciously they look at me, yes verily so vile!

Oh, G‑d, the plates whisper-so loudly of death.