The shoes are still there
At Auschwitz; the shoes
Of children; piled high,
Relics of a sea of hate and
A death and a burning.
Maybe my shoes are
There, Anny Horowitz
Says, leaning over your
Broad shoulder gazing at
The screen of images on
The PC; the colours, the
Shapes and sizes, visible
As if yesterday’s capture.
You turn slightly as her
Blue eyes gaze, her long
Blonde hair ghostly against
Your cheek, her words soft
As if breathed out, not uttered.
The small fingers of her left
Hand trace the images slowly
Across the screen, drawing
The outlines, filling in pretend
Colours. You want to utter
Words, to catch thoughts,
To hold her image in mind,
Her words, the blue eyes,
The spirit thing that never dies.
But she’s gone again; the screen
Flickers, the shoes become blurred;
Tears can do that like a drowning.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
The shoes are still there
At Auschwitz; the shoes
Of children; piled high,
Relics of a sea of hate and
A death and a burning.
Maybe my shoes are
There, Anny Horowitz
Says, leaning over your
Broad shoulder gazing at
The screen of images on
The PC; the colours, the
Shapes and sizes, visible
As if yesterday’s capture.
You turn slightly as her
Blue eyes gaze, her long
Blonde hair ghostly against
Your cheek, her words soft
As if breathed out, not uttered.
The small fingers of her left
Hand trace the images slowly
Across the screen, drawing
The outlines, filling in pretend
Colours. You want to utter
Words, to catch thoughts,
To hold her image in mind,
Her words, the blue eyes,
The spirit thing that never dies.
But she’s gone again; the screen
Flickers, the shoes become blurred;
Tears can do that like a drowning.
SHOES AT AUSCHWITZ.
