Peter Alan John Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Grandfather’s generation would have said:
“He is as dead! ”
his younger brother will a stranger wed,
one’s mind sees red.
At University their paths would thread,
thoughtless they tread,
senseless instead
of following where ancestors had led,
for what they bled
to be a Jew and join a new homestead
in Talmud read.
Although on Saturday turned table’s spread,
[he butters bread]
one would prefer by far to fast in bed,
[she mutters, fed].
Why are light’s links around him shed?
why was he bred?
Upon next weekend all must dwell in dread,
what lies ahead?