Gerda                                              by John Flynn

Gerda sits alone in her small house each night
A couple decades younger than electric light
Turning faded pages in her husband’s chair
(Men walked on the moon when Willi last sat there)

Hair like steam escaping from a boiling pot
Bony hands that barely tie the bath robe knot
Eyes like windows blown out in a hurricane
Star of David hanging from a silver chain

Chorus:
Joy cometh in the morning
Although weeping tarries through the night
Joy cometh in the morning
Gerda’s waiting for the morning light

I see her by her mail box every day or so
She never smiles but sometimes if I say hello
She’ll talk to me, her voice thin but her accent thick
like something from an old Marlena Dietrich flick

When we moved in the neighbors said Don’t waste your breath
She’s just a mean old hag who scares the kids to death
Sometimes late at night she stares out from her door
As if there’s someone or something she’s waiting for chorus

In this whole world she never did a body harm
Sadly this whole world can’t say the same
Though in the camp they tattooed numbers on her arm
The psalm tattooed on Gerta's heart proclaims chorus