The Messiah In Strasshof

Inside the grinding burden of the crusty past dreary facts hide, jubilant verities hibernate, haunting memories trumpet and overwhelm the poet he is compelled to tell what cannot be told. But this is a true story and it must be told. It happened long ago, as the ordeals of 1944 curled into the agonies of 1945 over the tormented body of war-weary Europe. Exhaling anguished stench soaked in torrents of blood mighty armies clashed in apocalyptic combats, against the forces of darkness. In the unrelenting wintry cold the fighting intensified along frontless fronts. There were daily air raids and dog fights in the skies. Humming allied bombers flew towards their targets and the German flak firing from the ground pelted across the blue firmament feathery clouds of bursting explosive shells. Turning his back to the barbed wire fence a slim and hungry eight year old boy lifted his ebon eyes to the heavens, beclouded with melancholic despair and oblivion. A prisoner in the Nazi concentration camp Strasshof, a forlorn suburb of waltz-loving Vienna, he stood dazed, almost catatonic. And then suddenly as if appearing out of nowhere a teenager started to talk to the boy. And he listened eagerly, drinking the words with zest and fervor, his eyes widely open and glow in wonder and fascination. For, the boy heard from his mysterious friend that one day swords will be beaten into plowshares and no nation will rise against others to wage wars. Oh, then the days of halcyon will arrive, wild lions will play peacefully with timid children amid blossoming flowers on quiet river banks. The day will come and people will be free and happy because the Messiah is round the corner, bringing redemption to the hungry, the wretched and the hopeless.