Jews in the Forest

Thunder crackling from the skies
on a cantankerous wintry eve,
and white flashes flashing
between leaves in the trees
as we huddle around our meager
campfire and sip lustfully at
warm mulled cider and rum.

A hog is roasting on the spit,
twirling and glistening in the
moonlight - the old man slowly
spins it to get an even cook,
and smoke billows from his
chapped, parched lips and from
the meal of a good day's hunt.

The scent fills our frozen nostrils
as we suck it in, in long whiffs.

We can hear the footsteps of the
rain run down our canopy of trees...

Puffing quick warm breath onto
mittened hands that shuffle
between each other, rubbing
circulation into boney knuckles,
a cough lingering here or there,
a humming starts from the bellows
of our hungry souls and washes over.

No one speaks for there is nothing,
no, nothing to say, no words of comfort -
only acceptance that winter has come,
hopelessness on its shoulders.

Animals in the forest are hiding from
the self destruction of humankind;
watching frightfully of our madness
that hides in barrels of loaded guns.

They cannot know our ammunition
ran out this morning, bringing down
a meal that will surely be our last.

We think, we will go out with a bang,
if this is how it is to be, we will
deplete our supplies and transform
a week's rations into one night's feast.

The sick are sickening and weary,
our camp will freeze tonight,
but our bellies will be full, and
hope will no longer deceive us.

If we meet soldiers on the morrow,
we can be ready to face their wrath;
ready to set down our knees on
the muddy earth, hands tied behind
our backs, eyes blinded by cloth,
knowing that death is by our own
choosing, and it will all be over soon.

With the angry crackle of rifle fire,
the long suffering of our people
will have finally met its end.

With nothing else to believe in,
this is what we must believe,
and though we should not, we
hope to not wait very long before
we are found and put out of misery.