Richard Weaver

By Richard WeaverSan Diego, California, USA As the Prince of Thebes, I always dress in silks and bright bangles. You say I am my artliving through the rapt eyes of others. They see Berlin or Munich in my mirror, but look away, embarrassed, confused when I enter a room because I am a Jew. Their laughter chases me down the street. Ridicule, my ungrateful friend, my servant,my only living child, dances alongside me. And now you are dead. First Georg.Now you, Franz. Why you? Why does God . . .This war promised to free us but stains the sky daily with migraines. I curse it and those who…