That South African Girl
She hadn’t worked there but a month
from far away she came
Her hair was curly, long and blond
I don’t recall her name
We spoke of money once or twice
a banker she could be
But deep inside, a poison dwelled
which I was soon to see
One day she pulled a wallet
from the purse she always had
She said it was the last possession
of her now dead, dad
She handed me the wallet
soft and gray and old
And said it was the very last
her father’s hand did hold
She said it was made special
the skin was from a Jew
That very few existed
and not too many knew
Time was frozen, as I held
a sin inside my hand
A wallet from her father
created from a man
I asked, What do you mean to say?
and gave the wallet back
She said that it had been a Jew
once taken from a shack
I said, Why did you do this,
and make me touch this thing?
How dare you think that I’d accept
this hate for Jews you bring?
We never spoke a word again
like strangers we would be
From that day on, just looks exchanged
between that girl and me
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