Showing Results 1 - 3 of 3
Restricted
Text
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
Categories:
Restricted
Text
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
Categories:
Restricted
Text
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