How best can we remember we were
slaves? After all, it's been three thousand years. Perhaps in time the ceremony paves Pleasingly the terrace of our tears. Yet it happened once, this morning myth, Past the open window of the wound, And again, and yet again, the truth Still streaming from the altars of the doomed. So must we be the slaves of our own time, Our holocaust the holocaust of all, Victorious only when the ancient crime Exists alone as ritual and rhyme, Remnants of a myth beyond recall.