Hate does not die
Tonight, a pain within a pain
gnaws and eats away
at whatever good thoughts I had left
about humanity.
Because just when I think I’m okay—
that I’ve gotten over—
NO.
No.
Not over.
Gotten past
the horrendously cruel acts
against the innocents of my people
on that darkest of Octobers—
I’m reminded, on this Yom HaShoah v’HaGvurah1
that hate does not die.
Hate does not die
until we kill it for good—
murder it completely,
utterly,
so it can never rise again.
It is we who must rise.
We who must speak—
on behalf of those who no longer can.
Those whose vocal cords were shattered
from the screaming—
shouting
on deaf ears.
Silenced.
But not forgotten.
We mourn.
We cry.
We pray.
And we hope that their strength
will give us strength.
Because in our cushy lives,
we can—at the very least—
do the right thing.
Not be complacent.
Not be still.
We are their hope.
And we cannot
let them down.