The Death of Kafka
Shy of his birthday by a moon
At nearly forty-one
Franz Kafka died, which seemed too soon
For his soul to be gone;
Yet that was 1924
As history supply
The details—such a good year for
A Czech-born Jew to die.
For Kafka died as though the first
Of the extermination
Campaign against the Jews; rehearsed
The plight to blight his Nation;
For O so clearly he foresaw
The future’s machinations,
He wasted thin, became like straw
In sympathy’s pro-rations.
Kafka foresaw the ugliness
That would result in Hitler’s
Desultory dynamic mess,
Belittled and belittlers,
Final solution for the Jews
The which he must disdain
And lodge protest, thereby he choose
The purest path: his pain.