Our people is a fiery sun

based on the poem "Dead Men Don't Praise God" by Jacob Glatstein (Or Yankev Glatshteyn)

Our people is a fiery sun
a giant conflagration
and a source of light.
Through the ages
we've survived,
burning.
an eternal candle (neir tamid)
In the flames of blood liebels;
Blois, Trent.
Never forget
we have been
burned like Nadav
and Avihu in foreign
fire.

The tongues of
Inquisition's flames
waggled at many
hidden brethren.
Women who swept floors
the wrong way.
Men who claimed allergies
to pork as paella
was passed around.
They did not escape
Nimrod's furnace unscathed.

The mouth of God
is full of bad taste
from the ashes and smoke
of crematoriums.
It's a wonder he doesn't choke,
and belch some heaven and
hell onto earth.
(It's a wonder we don't choke.)

The ever-burning people
play like David played in desperation
We write like Ezra, but without divine inspiration
We sing like Deborah, even as the
barbed wire strangles us.
We help, we hold, we create,
We burn, we choke, we die
through the ages, for
our people is a fiery sun.