The German tanks are crawling east,

        Through black October mud.

A row of poplars in the mist —

        The road to Stalingrad.

When winter casts its snowy pall,

The endless steppe will swallow all.

A crueler enemy than the Hun

        Is Russia to her own,

For cold and hunger spare none

        In work camps in the Zone.

At last, a chance to flee the place:

The tyrant’s death –– his saving grace.

And yet, for Israel’s scattered race

        There never shall be peace,

For hatred blind and slander base

        And fear never cease,

And even in the promised land,

If folly rules, the war won’t end.

What better then than wander free

        In Sinai’s silent waste,

By rock and sand, by ridge and scree,

        By wind and sun embraced?

The ever-clear sky above —

Forever peace, forever love.

                            B. B.