Mumbai
by D. Kaufmann

What remains, remains. And no tears suffice
to comfort give, or advice, on how
to answer the unanswerable pain,
for there are fires without and fevers within;
in either case the flames consume the house,
or soul, and seem to suck the goodness out,
as event horizons vacuum stars,
a flash before the fading into dark,
the paralyzing heat of deepest fears –
and so the searing winds of chaos rage
and terror, curséd terror, sweeps the field.
And so as if no more than moths with wings
of dust and ashes we in flickers go.

The sword in all its forms has had its day,
Its edge has splintered sparks upon the bricks
and mortared stones of Temples, synagogues
and our homes.
Enough! Cut off the hand opposing all.
Enough! Cut off the bloody, sword-stained hand.
Enough! The voice, the voice of Jacob cries
On this day death, on this day evil dies.

The mighty seem to conquer, darkness rise –
Let not the smoke of idols blind our eyes:
Amidst the rubble and smoldering dreams
grief and rage may clog the wellspring’s streams,
Against the spreading, lighting of the light,
a wall of blackness, violence and blight.
Amidst the search for words, the questing to believe,
A candle in the window, and hope retrieve.
In this the path, in this resolve resides:
Tis not the question, but the act decides;
The spark that kindles, that light with life has filled,
From the soul the law of life: build, rebuild.

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Chess Daily News from Susan Polgar
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