חגים

We are sick of you and of your words. Arrows of ink dipped in venom. The libels, about infants slaughtered in the nights. We are sick of the ritual of mixing the blood and baking the matzot. We are sick of the old, old tale. We saw the crematoria sending up smoke. You beat us well with the very stick that delivered you from the terror of the furnace, and we came up alive from the darkness of the pit we stood through countless minutes of silence. We fasted because we were commanded and we wept for the dead and we were hungry in truth