I do not know why...

I must muck around in the quicksand,
burn and rage against the darkness
as Dylan (not Bob, but maybe him too)
suggested I do in my old age.

Even from the safety of a lifeboat
I would curse the Master of the Universe
for icebergs, for ignorance, indifference,
incompetence, suffering,

for promising redemption while
reminding us we know nothing 
of the inner workings of the universe
and He’s not in the mood today anyway.

The signs on my doorpost may stop the Angel of Death
but seem to be a welcome mat for evil and despair.

I wish I could sing Dona, Dona, find redemption
in its message, or believe that I would
sing Ani Maamin in the Death Camps,
but I don’t think I could.

So please forgive me. 
Today I cannot offer prayers of hope, 
and the only redemption I believe in
is that you will hold my hand until the end. 



(c)marthahurwitz2025