FIDDLER ON THE ROOF
FINAL CURTAIN: ANATEVKA

They have slashed the membrane that held
my soul.
and it plunged forth
in an iridescent rain,
leaping to the earth in terrible
slow drops
that stung the snow where they fell.

The bones of houses, shops and barns
are standing grey and still
against the far white mists of winter.

The laughter and dancing,
the praying and slinging
flow from Anatevka 
down endless roads of the earth.

And the sacred scroll
has been torn from the doorpost.

			Lucille Murphy