I rise again and again,
pogrom after pogrom,
since the St. Bartholomew massacre.
I nest inside the minds
to kill retrospection.
I bring forth the process
of your thought suppression.
I plant it in your head
after every pogrom -
a new seed of martyrdom.
I´ll let you fall into dementia,
I´m the mist of time,
the spirit of oblivion.
My power unfolds as monuments
no longer serve their purpose.
Crowds of fools revolt as I created
these believable illusions.
Only old unheard survivors of the fire
feel me strengthen.
I nourish on doubts of truth
and dwell here
in the infinite space of thoughts.
I am the nightmare of Voltaire,
the enemy of tolerance,
the deeds without a sense,
antagonist of remembrance
and reappraisal - the golden silence.
