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.