Rest is Reprieve
from the burdensome curse of futile toils
Rest is Restoration
of the perfection of life freshly bloomed
Rest is Return
from Edenic exile to its fullness of beauty
Rest is Remembrance
of Seven, an artefact of Mind
a Mystery and a Measure of Time
Rest is Today
for as long as its Today
until the Eighth Day dawns.
There are seven stages of grief
The first being denial
We deny that we are here
In this hell on Earth
We deny that some of our family members have been taken into the hands of death
We deny that we went through what we went through
In hopes that we will forget it ever happened
The second is the pain
The pain comes when it finally hits
Your family is dead
You will never be that same happy kid as you once were
The happy-go-lucky kid you were before the camps
The realization that your body will never work the same way
The next is anger
The frustration you have been holding back
Not at the Nazis or the Germans
You are frustrated at yourself
You are mad at yourself for being in that situation
You do not know why you are mad at yourself
But you refuse to place the blame anywhere else
The next stage is depression
The hole in your heart where your happiness used to lain
The realization that you are now by yourself and there is no one who will understand you anymore
No one will speak the language that us survivors speak
No matter how good of a therapist you are
It is a foreign language only select few speak
There is another stage we went through
The upward turns
The realization that you will be ok
You realize that you do not need your family to be ok
You do not need anyone who survived with you
You only need yourself
And that is all you have
There is another stage
This being particularly the hardest
It is working in an everyday life
With your new setbacks and PTSD
The new you starts to work properly
There is one more stage
It is acceptance
You finally accept what happened
You accept the fact that everything that you went through
Is not fiction
It is real life
You accept the fact that we went through inhumane treatments and tortures
And we accept all of it
We realize and accept that we were almost all killed off
Weather by sickness or ******
We accept we were the lucky ones
And never look back
I wrote this for a school assignment last year, and now it's being submitted into scholarship contests:)
I live in an optimistic room.
A facade of shaped mirrors.
A shell that lingers, marked with scarred runes.
A hell where a demon lies
dreaming in his tomb.
Ambling about an amiss womb of ignorance
my nature is twisted.
I resisted a restless pessimist who has insisted
I entered into a house of horrors!
Where hubris is heavenly
and pain is pleasure.
Guilt is a given
and treachery means treasure.
My sins surround me.
Too slothful to even pluck the fruit
my gluttonous hunger devours
an empty hand.
In this way, pride and lust also follow suit.
My avarice is of envious repute,
but of the things I envy
I cannot refute.
One last forgotten folly.
An abandoned demand.
is the seat of my soul.
Instead of a furnace
Tell me what it’s like
To not fear your own shadow
Always it follows
The world may be dim
But the sun shines bright on you
My beacon of light
Sands of solitude
Final message in bottle
The deep sea swallows
For love Is for the lucky
and the strong for finding love Is
luck In Its self for
one Could search all one
and still never find It for that's were the luck comes
Lucky myself that the girl
who later became my wife
known from a kid
but driffed apart thirty
years had passed before I saw again and that's where the luck for me came
in seven of sevens,
in time, times and a half,
from the very first night,
the harvest is completed.
the fruition of the leaven of truth,
once a strange tongue,
coded in familiar languages;
unquenchably burns on altars.
a foreign bride awaits,
the reason a man leaves his family;
love shall be awakened and aroused,
for the time is right!
the light, fully revealed.
a child, a new creation:
King of kings for a thousand years,