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This urn will be made of fired clay
Of native soil, from Poland, my country
In it are lodged the ashes of my parents
My brothers, daughter, and wife.
The urn will be simple, like a jug
With a small…
Contributor:
Stanislaw Wygodzki
Places:
Date:
1948
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When I was twelve, I read The Diary of Anne Frank.
I identified with her having to live
stories above a busy street
over a business, and having to keep quiet
for hours at a time.
I’d pad about on…
Contributor:
Jane Shore
Places:
Chevy Chase, United States of America
Date:
1996
Subjects:
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The cartwheels rush,
quivering.
What is their burden?
Shoes, shivering.
The cart is like
a great hall:
the shoes crushed together
as though at a ball.
A wedding? A party?
Have I gone blind?
Who…
Contributor:
Abraham Sutzkever
Date:
1943
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Still, still, let us be still.
Graves grow here.
Planted by the enemy,
they blossom to the sky.
All the roads lead to Ponar,
and none returns.
Somewhere father disappeared,
disappeared with all our…
Contributor:
Shmerke Kaczerginski
Date:
1942
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our lightless awful days are passing
splinters of memories prick our brains
daily our Creator beats us using both hands
we are his dry weeds husked to the core
for us fire is no fire for us it is…
Contributor:
Stefánia Mándy
Places:
Auschwitz-Birkenau, German-occupied Poland
(Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland)
Date:
1944
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When I observe a toothless ex-violinist,
with more hair than face, sprawled like Karl Marx
on a park seat or slumped, dead or asleep,
in the central heat of a public library
I think of Uncle Isidore…
Contributor:
Dannie Abse
Places:
London, United Kingdom
Date:
1976