To an Unknown Girl in Auschwitz

To an Unknown Girl in Auschwitz

by Charles L. Cingolani

Who are you who make your way
among the crowds?
You, Two Six Nine Five Three
You, the Flower of Jewry
proud, erect, with neck of ivory
with noble skull adorned,
seen in paintings,
overseen in passing
unless caringly observed.

Graceful your footsteps
your warm fingers soft
that have not yet caressed a new-born
or cushioned the lover's head
from loving spent.

Your forehead high above dark pools
wherein burn radiant eyes,
and your imperious nose.

You are the Waiting One
who would open the door
when he comes looking
among the fair for his beloved.

You are the Yearned For,
You are the Evening Star,
You are the Winter Rose,
You are the Treasure of Gold,
You are the Bearer of Life,
You are the Autumn Harvest,
You are everything desired.

He will look in every bower
will search the lions' lairs
no latch undone, no hinge unswung
until he finds you.

But you have awakened before dawn
have made your way in darkness
scenting his nearness,
drawn, done with watching,
to fullness, home, place of rest
where waiting ends
where union quenches thirst.

He is closer now than visions clung to
nights through, or anticipation
groveling your love-sick heart.
Are you hearing his voice,
your tilted head rushing
in his direction?
Are you about to enter
on a banquet prepared?
Is that you reclining
in fruits from his trees,
cushioned in down, watching
twirling columns of incense
while waiting for his entrance?

Does he see you coming, you,
so intent in his direction?
Stands he there behind some board,
some cleft in a wall?
What is he saying?
What words trickle into your heart?
Is he promising a time, a month, a season?
Or is it room, hearth, or cell-
like oriels make hanging, a flaxen purse,
deep in foliage hidden
where union takes place?
Name the highest your heart imagines.
Is it home? Is it mountain
made of acceptance, understanding?
Oh, this questioning but muddies
the clear brook of thoughtless pursuit.

Go, lift your beauty to him.
Now all convention, all words
recede. There is no fetter.
You are beyond wedded, law, sanction.
All is accord and light.

In this garden He has found you,
here where fruit is falling.
You are running now, lightly,
faunlike. But He, too, is in motion
and in nearing catches you up
sidelong, longing, in His embrace.