Yala Korwin Poems

Best Poem of Yala Korwin

The Little Boy With His Hands Up
Your open palms raised in the air
like two white doves
frame your meager face,
your face contorted with fear,
grown old with knowledge beyond your years.
Not yet ten. Eight? Seven?
Not yet compelled to mark
with a blue star on white badge
your Jewishness.

No need to brand the very young.
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Passover Night 1942
not a crumb of leavened
or unleavened bread
and no manna fell

no water sprang out
of the bunker's wall
the last potato was gone

we sat and we munched
chunks of potato-peels
more bitter than herbs

we didn't dare to sing
and open the door
for Elijah

we huddled . . .
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