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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #2116730
I often write about people who inspire me.
A man who committed no crime,
yet forced to do the hardest time.
They shaved his head,
gave him straw for a bed.
There was something special they knew,
but he was a convicted Jew.
The Nazis seeked to destroy,
Primo Levi the genius boy.
Sent to work in the cold all day,
not a bad word would he say.
He survived out of pride,
and took it all in his stride.
Threw all the indignation,
he never forgot his position.
With the number tattooed on his arm,
by the Germans who only mean harm.
He bartered his food,
with those who fought and brood.
Alas! Finally! Liberation came!
But poor Primo was never the same.
He had nightmares that plagued his sleep,
of unfair guilt he chose to keep.
The acclaimed chemist could handle it no more,
he could no longer live with the pain he bore.
Italy's hero was finally slain,
his memory lives on, it was not in vain.
Primo Levi look to the sky and see,
go home and rest, you are finally free.
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