The girl who met God
said he had blue eyes
and spoke German.
He stood tall,
not in heaven,
but on earth
at a crossing of dust and fear.
Playing God,
he raised his hand
like a prophet of steel
and divided the living:
You, to the right.
You, to the left.
She laughed,
not because it was funny,
but because she was still a girl.
**** she called him
innocence flirting with death.
He did not smile.
He pointed again:
You, to the right.
Your mother, left.
Your sister, left.
That was the last time
love stood in one place.
The world would later cryed:
Holocaust.
Never again.
Candles were lit
a Menorah against the dark,
flames trembling with memory.
But the light,
too bright,
burned the eyes
and blinded the hearts.
And history,
faith dressed as righteousness,
returned with the same hands
that once lit the flame.
So tell me:
when she said
she met God,
did she mean
the man with blue eyes?
Or the silence
that followed him?
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 5:51 AM UTC
The girl who met God
said he had blue eyes
and spoke German.
He stood tall,
not in heaven,
but on earth
at a crossing of dust and fear.
Playing God,
he raised his hand
like a prophet of steel
and divided the living:
You, to the right.
You, to the left.
She laughed,
not because it was funny,
but because she was still a girl.
**** she called him
innocence flirting with death.
He did not smile.
He pointed again:
You, to the right.
Your mother, left.
Your sister, left.
That was the last time
love stood in one place.
The world would later cryed:
Holocaust.
Never again.
Candles were lit
a Menorah against the dark,
flames trembling with memory.
But the light,
too bright,
burned the eyes
and blinded the hearts.
And history,
faith dressed as righteousness,
returned with the same hands
that once lit the flame.
So tell me:
when she said
she met God,
did she mean
the man with blue eyes?
Or the silence
that followed him?
Request permission to use this poem