Holocaust
By Sudeep Pagedar
How Do You
Explain That Term
To A Ten-
Year Old Boy
Who, One Day,
Hears It Mentioned
By Some Relatives?
And Even If
You Do Manage
To Make Him
Understand What It
Actually Does Mean,
Do You Also
Tell Him That
Because He Is
A GERMAN JEW,
Perhaps, Some Day,
He Might Be
Included In It...?
Or Should He
Just Not Be
Told, So That
He Remains Calm
And Doesn't Lose
Sleep Over It?
But What Is Sleep,
In Front Of Death?
Perhaps Death Is Greater,
Perhaps The Two Are The Same;
We Do Not Know Yet
But We'll Know, By The End Of The Day;
The Chambers Are Yet Some Hours Away.
"To Die, To Sleep...To Sleep, Perchance To Dream..."
How Did Shakespeare Realize That?
Did He Know Some Jew
Who Was Persecuted Too?
Perhaps He Was Wrong,
Maybe He Was Right...
Anyway, I Suspect We'll Find Out
By Tonight.
By Sudeep Pagedar
How Do You
Explain That Term
To A Ten-
Year Old Boy
Who, One Day,
Hears It Mentioned
By Some Relatives?
And Even If
You Do Manage
To Make Him
Understand What It
Actually Does Mean,
Do You Also
Tell Him That
Because He Is
A GERMAN JEW,
Perhaps, Some Day,
He Might Be
Included In It...?
Or Should He
Just Not Be
Told, So That
He Remains Calm
And Doesn't Lose
Sleep Over It?
But What Is Sleep,
In Front Of Death?
Perhaps Death Is Greater,
Perhaps The Two Are The Same;
We Do Not Know Yet
But We'll Know, By The End Of The Day;
The Chambers Are Yet Some Hours Away.
"To Die, To Sleep...To Sleep, Perchance To Dream..."
How Did Shakespeare Realize That?
Did He Know Some Jew
Who Was Persecuted Too?
Perhaps He Was Wrong,
Maybe He Was Right...
Anyway, I Suspect We'll Find Out
By Tonight.
Holocaust
by Barbara Sonek We played, we laughed we were loved. We were ripped from the arms of our parents and thrown into the fire. We were nothing more than children. We had a future. We were going to be lawyers, rabbis, wives, teachers, mothers. We had dreams, then we had no hope. We were taken away in the dead of night like cattle in CARS, no air to breathe smothering, crying, starving, dying. Separated from the world to be no more. From the ashes, hear our plea. This atrocity to mankind can not happen again. Remember us, for we were the children whose dreams and lives were stolen away. |
Holocaust
By Melissa De Vos Fear Anguish Resentment These are the words that come to mind. Family members were hard to find. People couldn't be who they were. Making their lives a total blur. If only for a moment would they recall. Feelings of being trapped in a cell wall. First They Came For The Jews
by Martin Niemöller First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew. Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist. Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me. Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft star-shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. I AM REMEMBRANCE
By Eric Sander Kingston i am blue and white striped with a yellow star and a tattoo of death i shower in fire with my brothers hand in mine he knows of no jew or catholic muslim or christian he knows only that he wants to live and i i cannot comprehend i cannot understand i cannot forget what i have never known i shovel the ashes of the death with the "why" tearing at me with the "why" burning me with the "why" tattooed in the fire of my mind and what have they known but pain and suffering? what have they become but hunted and afraid what will be left but ashes and debris if they forget i wear the blue and white stripes of persecution i shovel the ashes of the dead i carry the tomorrows that were burned the hopes that were shot the dreams that will never be and i am a prisoner to what i have never known to the gate of that eternal night born to chains, born to suffer born to 1000's of years of containment exclusion restriction haunted by the agony of the dead and the guilt of the living i am remembrance forsake me not for it is the doom of man that he forgets The Little Boy with His Hands Up
by Yala Korwin Your open palms raised in the air like two white doves frame your meager face, your face contorted with fear, grown old with knowledge beyond your years. Not yet ten. Eight? Seven? Not yet compelled to mark with a blue star on white badge your Jewishness. No need to brand the very young. They will meekly follow their mothers. You are standing apart Against the flock of women and their brood With blank, resigned stares. All the torments of this harassed crowd Are written on your face. In your dark eyes—a vision of horror. You have seen Death already On the ghetto streets, haven't you? Do you recognize it in the emblems Of the SS-man facing you with his camera? Like a lost lamb you are standing Apart and forlorn beholding your own fate. Where is your mother, little boy? Is she the woman glancing over her shoulder At the gunmen at the bunker's entrance? Is it she who lovingly, though in haste, Buttoned your coat, straightened your cap, Pulled up your socks? Is it her dreams of you, her dreams Of a future Einstein, a Spinoza, Another Heine or Halévy They will murder soon? Or are you orphaned already? But even if you still have a mother, She won't be allowed to comfort you In her arms. Her tired arms loaded with useless bundles Must remain up in submission. Alone you will march Among other lonely wretches Toward your martyrdom. Your image will remain with us And grow and grow To immense proportions, To haunt the callous world, To accuse it, with ever stronger voice, In the name of the million youngsters Who lie, pitiful rag-dolls, Their eyes forever closed. Something
by Michael R. Burch for the children of the Holocaust Something inescapable is lost-- lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone-- gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past-- blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, and finality has swept into a corner where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Tale of a Sprinter, in the Winter of 1938 by Sudeep Pagedar THE PAST - I am an athlete from Berlin, my feet are fast and swift. I can run faster than anyone! Truly, this is the Lord's gift! Any race I participate in, I always come in first, for I tell myself, "I HAVE to win"; it is like a great thirst. Even if someone, somehow passes me, I put on an extra burst of speed and run past him, leaving him behind; thus, I take the lead. I once thought, "If I keep running this way, I might be in the Olympics, some day..." THE PRESENT - But now the year is nineteen-thirty-eight And for my dreams, it's just too late. My running days are all gone, I'm not going to see tomorrow's dawn. Yes, it is true that I can run very fast; But it is also true that I am a Jew... There's no running, from the Holocaust. Homesick
I've lived in the ghetto here more than a year, In Terezín, in the black town now, And when I remember my old home so dear, I can love it more than I did, somehow. Ah, home, home, Why did they tear me away? Here the weak die easy as a feather And when they die, they die forever. I'd like to go back home again, It makes me think of sweet spring flowers. Before, when I used to live at home, It never seemed so dear and fair. I remember now those golden days… But maybe I'll be going there again soon. People walk along the street, You see at once on each you meet That there's a ghetto here, A place of evil and of fear. There's little to eat and much to want, Where bit by bit, it's horror to live. But no one must give up! The world turns and times change. Yet we all hope the time will come When we'll go home again. Now I know how dear it is And often I remember it. |