A laureate once wrote of how earth's pale history runs,
Equated it to "the trouble of ants in the gleam
Of a million million suns."

Frankl lived the **** curse, abused and almost killed;
Yet spoke of his countrymen's sins
As a father scolds food spilled.

I'll neither justify or condemn actions, many or the few;
My righteous judgement is saved for me,
What holiness have you?

Have you walked the steps of the Austrian man who took
Power to avoid abuse? Lived to love the torture
For which your fragile childhood shook?

What god or demon lifted you from the despair you only knew,
That you'd blindly follow - just for thanks -
Upon the corpses your hand slew?

Ideally, pundits and anchors both are true in what is spoken,
Yet only the blind, the deaf, and fools
Blame the builder for what is broken.

Instead of pallid horror...instead of prophesying to the doomed,
Maybe we can pause a second, take stock of all that's blessed,
And expend a little effort to leave callousness entombed.