Your golden star lies on Broadway.
The Sunset Boulevard to broken dreams.
This is no counter culture poem,
or obituary to doomed youth of
Yet Green Day and Muse left me diffused
with rock, indie and metal,
though you are but a petal that never dies.
I am talking Nineteen Forties Germany
and you, that Jewish girl, daughter of a seamstress and baker.
Then when the Nazis took over
and ignorance never more bliss.
You wore a gold star, bandaged to your blouse sleeve.
At the camp you were branded, had it embedded in your wrist.
You put pages down of song-writing prowess
“Your mother was a demon Jewess and your father a fool!”
spat the squadron leader of Camp 52.
The squat, stinking cattle trucks, then bones burnt, showers soaked in blood.
The golden star that branded her would never give you luck.
Then on that day of liberation,
he held you in his arms, the American army boy
who smiled and gave you joy.
You might have been a bag of bones, literally you were sewn,
a tiny patch, the day they went home together to the States,
the soldier boy and you. He raised you up, name in lights forever,
you never felt so high.
A singer who truly sang the blues,
yet on that day you stood to choose
a star upon a golden pathway,
though millions in the sky,
the sunlight bathed your eyes.
So many of your ancestors and victims from the camps,
you looked away from Hollywood fame and lit an oil lamp.
Then you went upon a pilgrimage, stopped at a synagogue,
where a young girl prayed and cried,
you gave to her the oil lamp, she wept before your eyes.
Saying, “You are but a petal, in a garden far from here.
The gardener I promise you will give you hope and cheer.”
This girl had not recognised you, but for all your fame,
yet she had seen inside that you were both the same.
You held a hand out to the flame and offered her your glove,
then she saw the David star and looked at you with love.
“Friend and sister, Celandine. A rose that smells as sweet,
the stars that shine above you await for you to greet.”
On that day the woman slept, the little girl and friend,
realised a true stalwart had found a happy end.
So all the stars on boulevard, and all the stars above
relieved her dreadful branding, turned into pure white doves,
feathers all around then found a petal from Celandine with love.
There were doves and pure pink roses, a garden filled with peace,
then Celandine held the gardener’s hand and heaven had released