The pen, the sword, the eternal magic

The pen, the sword, the eternal magic,

The enigma of life stood still,

On her journey to heaven,

On her quest for peace.

She was a poet, a deadly fighter

A warrior, a believer

But the truth of her life,

Remained in the dark.

She was the antagonist,

The protagonist of her own story;

She laid it down on paper,

All her tranquil thoughts

But there was war outside her door:

There were tears of blood.

As the world stood still,

Her pen moved;

And won endless hearts,

But outside her door,

Was the oxymoron of what the world should really be.

It was the war against humanity,

The war against fate;

But she did win that war,

With words the world will never forget.

But then came the final blow,

The blow which was the end;

Thanatos took the disguise of typhus,

And excruciating pain.

But her name has been sung,

And her diary has been read,

The pen, the sword, the eternal magic:

Write it down, fight it off, the eternal tragic.

                           Anne Frank