In white Siberia where the fallen have risen
little bees come sting me
from under snow like miracles.
Come to wake me and warn me the war
has ended. Come to tell time in
high-pitched voices, with slender stingers
which leave stigmata on my palms.
They have news to bring me
and simple songs to sing:

"I'm alone, I'm alone
my coffin's made of stones;
I'm alone as a bone
separated from a skeleton."

There was no chance for farewell
to someone I once missed.
I am a single lip
powerless to give a kiss.

The hope which dresses and warms me
is that survivors remain.
We who were murdered rest
eternally awake.
Jammed like toes in tight boots,
our dybbuks' scalps still itch.
Our mothers' mothers,
our fathers' fathers,
an integrated pile of ash.