"margot" poems
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Dearest Reader,
My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.
On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.
I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.
Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a bitch-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.
Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.
Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.
During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."
The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.
I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,
Margot Dylan
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”
Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.
“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”
The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.
Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).
Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.
Overnight the years twist.
Edgar Snooker has heard he is to play Hitler's dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.
As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,
As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,
As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,
As her money is without temperament,
As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,
So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.
As candles whisper in the middle of the road,
As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,
So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.
The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.
We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.
We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.
There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.
We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.
We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.
The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
~
*Bring your whirlwinds with you;
in the snow angel summer
bring Margot the sun.
In the hour of red glare
a rush to pick slowberries
before getting caught up in the silk.
Prisms, mirrors, lenses!
strategies for combatting visibility:
keep your eyes closed,
face away from the window.
The myriad threads of people in hiding,
they eat their own web each day,
and yet something always shines
in the heart's secret annex.
Men and women are
separated from each other,
the girls are on a train
to the Bergen-Belsen,
"white founts falling
in the courts of the sun."
Margot now cries quietly;
so silently she weeps over
sunshine and hate.*
~
Jan 4, 2024
Jan 4, 2024 at 3:41 PM UTC
Vamos, Margot, repíteme esa historia
Que estabas refiriéndole a María,
Ya vi que te la sabes de memoria
Y debes enseñármela, hija mía.
-La sé porque yo misma la compuse.
-¿Y así no me la dices? Anda, ingrata.
-¡Tengo compuestas diez! -¡Cómo! repuse,
¿Te has vuelto a los seis años literata?
-¡No, literata no! pero hago cuentos...
-No temas que tal gusto te reproche.
-Al ver a mis hermanos tan contentos
Yo les compongo un cuento en cada noche.
-¿Y cómo dice el que contando estabas?
-Es muy triste, papá, ¿qué no lo oíste?
-Sólo oí que lloraban y llorabas.
-¡Ah! sí, todos lloramos; ¡es muy triste!
Imagínate un niño abandonado
De grandes ojos de viveza llenos,
Rubio, risueño, gordo y colorado
-Como mi hermano Juan, ni más ni menos.
Figúrate una noche larga y fría,
De muda soledad, sin luz alguna,
Y ese niño muriendo, en agonía,
Encima de la acera, no en la cuna.
-¿En las heladas lozas? -Sí, en la acera.
Es decir, en la calle... ¡Qué amargura!
-Hubo alguien que pasando lo creyera
Un olvidado cesto de basura.
Yo pasaba, lo vi, bajé mis brazos
Queriendo darle maternal abrigo
Y envuelto en un pañal hecho pedazos
Lo alcé a mi pecho y lo llevé conmigo.
Lloraba tanto y tanto el angelito
Que ya estaban sus párpados muy rojos...
Y a cada nueva queja, a cada grito
El alma me sacaba por los ojos.
Me lo llevé a mi cama: entre plumones
Lo hice dormir caliente y sosegado...
¡Cómo hubo en este mundo corazones
capaces de dejarlo abandonado!
¡Ay! yo sé por mi libro de lectura
Que estudio en mis mayores regocijos,
Que ni los tigres en la selva oscura
Dejan abandonados a sus hijos.
¡Pobrecito! yo sé su mal profundo,
Le curo como madre toda pena;
Parece que este niño en este mundo
No es hijo de mujer sino de hiena.
De mi colchón en el caliente hueco
Duerme para que en lágrimas no estalle;
Y llorando Margot, mostró el muñeco
Que en cierta noche se encontró en la calle.
1.2k
The ice drew lace on the window panes
We couldn’t see out for a week,
The air had frozen and blocked the drains
And my tears were ice on my cheek.
‘Come back to bed and forget her now
She’s been gone since the crescent Moon,
Her passing has freed you from your vow
Yet your grief’s pervading the room.’
‘I need to know what was in her mind
On the day that she passed away,
She left no message of any kind
Why she swallowed the draught that day.
But you were there when she combed her hair,
You were there for the last words said,
She must have told of her deep despair
Or she wouldn’t have ended dead.’
‘You knew my sister had many moods,
You knew, before you were wed,
She’d lie, consulting the ancient runes
While hiding deep in her bed.
Her superstitions were known, it seems
Her hold on the world was loose,
She drifted half in and out of dreams
But death was what she would choose.’
I shook my head and I walked away,
And ploughed through the drifted snow,
Crunched a trail through the empty streets
To the cemetery gates at Stowe,
The clouds were grey in the sky above
And the snow built up in the trees,
While headstones peered from their icy tombs
Like sinners, down on their knees.
I scraped the ice from the headstone face
That said ‘Elizabeth Jane,’
‘An Angel fallen to earth,’ it said
‘While her heart was wracked with pain.’
A shadow fell on the marble face
As I turned, but no-one was there,
Then words appeared like an act of grace,
‘My sister killed me - Beware!’
The horror showed on my face, I rose
To follow the tracks I’d made,
But somebody else had left their prints
Leading away from the grave,
The tracks were made at a frantic pace
And they forged on way ahead,
Leading me through the cemetery gates
But Elizabeth Jane was dead!
A storm blew up on the way back home
And had turned the house to ice,
I forced my way up the frozen stairs
To confront Margot Desize.
But she lay frozen with eyes a-stare
And a glance said she was dead,
The horror fixed in her final glare
As a shadow stood by the bed!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
The Slovenian-born Trump wore an off-white dress with three-quarter length, bell-shaped sleeves to address the Republican National Convention on Monday night.
The dress was by Roksanda Illincic, whose designs are very popular in London and among celebrities, among them Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley and Daisy Ridley, to name just a few.
Samantha Cameron, wife of the former British prime minister, wore a colourful, flared Roksanda dress to leave Downing Street last week.
But the designer's most prominent fan is probably the Duchess of Cambridge. The former Kate Middleton has worn her designs to at least three events this (northern) summer, including a brilliant yellow dress with blocks of white to Wimbledon.
And then there's Michelle Obama, who wore Roksanda's beaded wool satin dress and wool coat to meet the Chinese president in 2011, among other occasions.
Though the first lady has chosen designers from across the globe during her years in the White House, she wore American designers to address both Democratic conventions at which her husband was nominated: Maria Pinto in 2008 and Tracy Reese in 2012.
Women's Wear Daily reported that Trump bought Illincic's "Margot" dress online from the Net-a-Porter fashion site.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
You're right on time
But I'd talk better with a mime
Smoke your cigarette and cough away the years
Yours are the driest tears
Please come from those on their knees
Smoke your cigarettes and shoot the breeze
Look at the world like a decaying work of art
You keep your feelings bottled up thinking that others will just corrupt you
All warped up in diamond cloth
Ready for whatever
Fight against a disembodied enemy
Smoke your cigarette and remind yourself your better than us all
It's ok we are about to fall
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
I dont love you
like everyone tells
me I should.
I love you how I want.
I love you like I
love caramel corn and
chocolate milk.
I love you as if
you were mine,
and mine only.
I love you like
I love silence and
Wes Anderson movies.
I love you how I want.
I love you until it
hurts so much I
have to gasp for air.
I love you until
my lips turn blue.
I love you like
Margot loves Richie,
minus the cigarettes
plus the suicide.
I love you in the beginning,
middle,
and end.
I love you how I want.
I love you because I can,
I love you because I do.
I love you because everyone
else says I shouldn't.
I just love you.
I love you with a purity
and ease of mind.
I love you always,
I really do.
It doesn't matter what they say,
I love you how I want.
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 8:39 AM UTC
keep singing me sad songs, I don't want to forget this feeling and I need you to tell me you don't love me so I can hear it rip my heart out just like the birds do to those poor worms they tear from the ground and that's the place where I fell so hard, breaking, cracking, snapping my jaw once it hit the Ice covered soil. they laughed like the hyenas in the jungle and I hid away in the basement and Margot did too. same with that bedroom, Margot was there too. Conor saves us all from the burning fire of our minds and we couldn't escape til Dan came. Mr Danny, why are you so sad? there's pints of whiskey in the corner. look to the sky, said Margot. and mother, let me go you gotta let this birdie fly if I'll ever grow and maybe it'll rain, I need a good rinse. wait, do you hear that? the music? or is that moaning? oh no it's Ramona crying? oh goodness she is screaming. Bethany, baby, what is the matter stop screaming. it'll only hurt a little bit, you needed it to be taken sometime right? your skirt looked too inviting for me to resist. I swear Carla wanted it. She even asked Helena to join us. but why is she screaming too? Father said this is the way to find love. But love isn't how him and mother was wasn't it? he was the airplanes coming to a crash and mother was the ambulance but seemingly every night they threw glass at each other. I just hope I did my math homework. I swear, I'll clean my room later and I'm sorry I didn't do the dishes and maybe you'll love me once again but my dearest I have no heart and my blood doesn't pump so when you kiss me don't be frightened I am not the ground I am the sky.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Lirios, lirios, más lirios... llueven lirios...
La noche es blanca como la ilusión
y flota la dulzura del perdón
sobre el llanto de todos los martirios.
Hay una vaga claridad de cirios...
La luna es una hostia en comunión
y el alma se recoge con unción
castigada por todos los delirios.
Y es bajo el claro de la luna suave
cuando el poeta que medita sabe
las tristezas enormes de Pierrot.
Y cuando le asesina la agonía
de las nostalgias blancas de María
y las nostalgias rojas de Margot.
441
Her name was Margot and she was followed by a band of faceless nothings.
Only bodies with heads and mouths that sang dreamy, sad songs into a can on a string.
Wandering the earth hoping to hear back that nothing is lost
Nothing is lost.
Go back to sleep darlings nothing is lost.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
when Margot met Circe: bah bah black sheep,
St. Bartholomew's chicken ****
for the puff of leg-room...
duffos... 1996 made so much sense;
hence the days before teen-mom
m.t.v., hence the days before
teen-mom m.t.v.,
is that revising the opposite
of the caveman within journalists
who'd have no imagination to
carve out a hammer?
but who still celebrate
that origination of all future history?
there's never too little history to revive,
there's only too much of the wrong
history to bookmark,
and subsequently revive...
whatever happened to culture of
things seen on t.v. when marijuana
was illegal?
ted the magic talking bear?
or is that ted'x talks? they legalised that ****
because because there were apparent
geniuses in s low mo t'yo née -
or: scooby dooby do... where are you...
magic monkey juice...
let's make america nostalgic ultra!
as the german poets and philosophers
tried to revive classical greek and came back
with a ******** clock for what really did become
good luck...
because they made marijuana legal
for non-high purposes as in extracting
something akin to Great Ormond kids ingesting
the green morphine monster...
but where's the fun in that when it's all legal
and couch-potato bound and never daring
for the jazz communes and spontaneously
propped poetics?
but i also grew up with
*Wilk i Zając - Odcinek 13 - Olimpiada 1980
w Moskwie* /
wolf & rabbit, episode 13, olympics 1980 in
Moscow... very ******* sputnik in terms of
tunes comrade Gagarin...
i once knew the meaning of the word: harasho...
i think it means: i understand.
я ci pokarzała! (i will show you!)
nu pagarzni! (no you won't!)
o' Ronald re re re, ***** i wielki flop!
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
You've got me speaking Neruda,
Sonnets circling around in my head,
Rolling those sweet words from the tongue,
Surrounding this daughter of the seas
So I'd like for you to hold still,
And let this heart dance within me
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
cluttered like that book shelf you shove all your worries and feelings into. Love is the thickest book you own and his heart is not as big as you thought. it holds all the birds but that is all. you can't be cradled any longer, baby lisa. Nova. don't cry. the bow broke and that's how you will fall. Danny, why didn't you catch her? I swore to Conor she will be raised to sun to grow like a flower. but one day you'll wither away and be buried in the ground so the earth can pick at you and tear you apart and house the bugs and let the soil soak you up. ants will take your bones and carry them away, worms will burrow into your eye sockets and that my dear.. that is when I think you are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. My eyes have burned away. I am blinded by your Paradisiacal appearance, my tears are the only cure. there's been a drought, why can't i water the clouds anymore mom? what have you done to me. Taylor, why are you here? oh no.. Thaddeus is here too. MARGOT GO GET THE SALAMANDER we have got to set Fire to all the houses that hold all the books that'll prove we have thought. Ray told me about this city. But it's lights dont light up the town like your eyes did. it's so dark here. and you're scent.. I smell it everywhere I go and it's ******* suffocating me. I can't breathe in your absence anymore.
Strip me of all that I've known.
Strip my mind of your curves and how your hair is when you wake up.
I don't want it anymore.
No stalgia is here.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
Sur les tuiles où se hasarde
Le chat guettant l'oiseau qui boit,
De mon balcon une mansarde
Entre deux tuyaux s'aperçoit.
Pour la parer d'un faux bien-être,
Si je mentais comme un auteur,
Je pourrais faire à sa fenêtre
Un cadre de pois de senteur,
Et vous y montrer Rigolette
Riant à son petit miroir,
Dont le tain rayé ne reflète
Que la moitié de son oeil noir ;
Ou, la robe encor sans agrafe,
Gorge et cheveux au vent, Margot
Arrosant avec sa carafe
Son jardin planté dans un *** ;
Ou bien quelque jeune poète
Qui scande ses vers sibyllins,
En contemplant la silhouette
De Montmartre et de ses moulins.
Par malheur, ma mansarde est vraie ;
Il n'y grimpe aucun liseron,
Et la vitre y fait voir sa taie,
Sous l'ais verdi d'un vieux chevron.
Pour la grisette et pour l'artiste,
Pour le veuf et pour le garçon,
Une mansarde est toujours triste :
Le grenier n'est beau qu'en chanson.
Jadis, sous le comble dont l'angle
Penchait les fronts pour le baiser,
L'amour, content d'un lit de sangle,
Avec Suzon venait causer.
Mais pour ouater notre joie,
Il faut des murs capitonnés,
Des flots de dentelle et de soie,
Des lits par Monbro festonnés.
Un soir, n'étant pas revenue,
Margot s'attarde au mont Breda,
Et Rigolette entretenue
N'arrose plus son réséda.
Voilà longtemps que le poète,
Las de prendre la rime au vol,
S'est fait reporter de gazette,
Quittant le ciel pour l'entresol.
Et l'on ne voit contre la vitre
Qu'une vieille au maigre profil,
Devant Minet, qu'elle chapitre,
Tirant sans cesse un bout de fil.
427
I heard the ring of the ambulance
As it barrelled down from E,
But wasn’t really awake, so didn’t
Know that it came for me.
They had me strapped on a stretcher
In the twinkling of an eye,
And only when we arrived, did I
Believe I was going to die.
The pain had been unrelenting since
I’d eaten the evening meal,
It started up in my shoulder, and
My hands, I couldn’t feel,
I felt my head become groggy, till
I finally passed out,
It must have been when I hit the floor
That I heard your sudden shout.
They said it must be a heart attack
So they’d have to run a test,
But while I lay in the hospital
I’d better get some rest.
I kept on coming and going while
The questions filled my head,
I wondered if I’d been poisoned,
Did you really want me dead?
I’d thought that it tasted funny, at
The time, as I said to you,
The meat had had a consistency
As if it was cooked in glue,
And then some of those vegetables
I couldn’t recognise,
You said I’d not know the difference
Between casseroles and pies.
And then, it must be about the time
That my forehead became damp,
You said whatever I knew of food
You could write on a postage stamp,
But you had been acting strangely since
That boarder came to stay,
Spending your time in drinking wine
That he’d brought from Bordelais.
I knew to look for the danger signs
In your long retreat from me,
I knew at once that he had designs
When his hand had touched your knee,
And every time that I left you two
Alone on a sultry day,
I had to wonder what you would do
To while the time away.
Your friend, Margot, has visited me
Alone in my hospital bed,
She said you were picking mushrooms,
Which has left my mind in dread.
She always seems to have favoured me,
And she sat and held my hand,
She said I shouldn’t have married you,
This is what you would have planned.
My mind was full of suspicion when
You came to visit me,
But you had cried, said I almost died,
And that brought you misery.
‘You know that I’ve always loved you,
But that love has brought me pain,
Whenever you look at Margot, it’s
Like losing you again.’
I asked her about the boarder and
She said that he’d gone before,
‘I only ever played up to him
To make you want me more.’
We’re both a prey to suspicions
And the heartache that they lend,
We’re over that, and we made a pact,
Our love is on the mend.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
When Otto Frank returned to his city
He knew, already, that his wife was dead.
Of his girls, Margot and Ann, he had yet heard nothing.
The silence gave birth to foreboding and dread.
On the day that he learned of his families’
fate;
That day that he learned both his daughters were gone.
Frank took on the mission of finding the traitor:
Who informed the Gestapo? Who raised the alarm?
He once again walked the streets of his city,
Free to enjoy the warmth of the Sun.
Reliving the same day over and over;
The day they were taken at the point of a gun.
Which smiling face? Which former employee
had hated the Jews in the depths of their heart?
Why did the food that he ate taste like ashes?
Why did his girls die just a few days apart?
One man in one lifetime could not find the answer
Otto Frank died still not knowing the truth.
Who had betrayed them, the man and his family?
Who was it who stole away beauty and youth?
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC