My Grandfather's Fiddle

Well do I remember
My grandfather and his fiddle,
A Jewish soul set to music,
Happy, sometimes plaintive and sad,
Painting my childhood
With the vivid colors
Of a treasured memory,
The quickening shadows of the years
Have scattered us all over the globe,
Some of his little ones,
Dead in the camp of Auschwitz,
Or, heaven knows, where else,
But up there he watches us,
The remnants of our family,
And in my dreams,
I still hold on to his coattails,
And in some empty, cold moments,
I close my eyes and hear his fiddle,
And then, all is well with the world....

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz