High noon this winter day
and blackbirds fill
the bare branches
of my dead neighbor's tree.
Max would have loved these birds;
they're as raucous as he was,
bobbing and clucking
as if they're debating
where to fly next.
Suddenly they know
and shoot from the tree.
They're gone but I shout
'Godspeed! ' anyway
in behalf of old Max,
immigrant from Auschwitz.
He may be dead but
the numbers on his forearm
glow in my dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem