by Omer Zamir
I live among those who rose from without the wreckage of waves and the ruins of rage. Whose eardrums were punctured by the lance of thunder, whose eyes were blinded with visions of fire. Yet glimmers of home’s star prevailed when they were held behind bars. No moment to mourn over youth’s decease when disembarking on Normandy’s beach. Many would remain on that red terrain. There are few nowadays who remember their names. Survivors still see the fallen in dreams all of a sudden cries of brethren beat shatteringly in the eardrum—shaken. The longing to embrace a lost brother’s face does not age in the direction of death. I live among those who rose from without the wreckage of rage and the ruins of waves.