There we were all huddled together
in our citadel; the zealots resisting
the Romans, the biggest hypocrites of all,
the ones who crucified Christ, the Jew.
There was talk of murder and suicide
to save women from prostitution
and children from slavery.
We saw the Romans coming.
Die! said our leaders, as they killed wives
and children alike.
But I was alone: Nobody's wife;
nobody's child. So I did not die.
Instead I made my way down
the cliffs of Masada
and ran far, far away:
There was so much death
that I was unseen.
And that was so long ago.
Some old soul has since sneaked
into my body: I am not quite dead;
not really alive. Maybe a ghost.
I have returned to Masada:
I watch boys and girls
confirm their Jewish souls
somewhere near the foot
of the mount. I pray
as I search among the ruins
that I might find
a kindred or at least
Sometimes, I do.