Eichmann
The clear, sweet evil of that simple name,
so redolent of sweaty viciousness,
of Spite is Right, of sin divorced from blame,
of seedy placemen, bloated with success,
did not fit with his flinty newsreel face.
This quarry, tracked down by a newer gang,
the old, tired formula once more in place,
would get a just, fair trial - and then he'd hang.
They showed him film of Auschwitz-Birkenau.
On all the panels of his glassy dock
the thin ghosts grinned, like Death's Heads, come to mock.
Who can feel pity for six million shades?
Yet one lone man (a worthless one, allowed)
hemmed in by death, still harrows and degrades.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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