(c) Rabbi Menachem Creditor
All I want to know is:
what would my number have been?
This face of mine, suddenly unfamiliar,
belongs to time long gone.
So why wouldn't my arm be the same?
These feet,
upon which I stand, shaking,
in my own home, my People's home:
Whose feet are they, really?
On this day,
marking the beginning of our defeat,
our walls breached:
Will this time be different?
All I want is:
Let there be no more numbers.
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