They Don'T Know

I walk in a busy street, happy faces everywhere Coats buttoned tight against the cold, Stomachs full, warm shoes on their feet. They don't know. My grandparents limped through the streets Cold, starving, wearing tattered coats. Barefoot in Germany in winter, for a crime of birth Convicted by fear, jealousy and hate. It is autumn, and all around me the colors explode As if a giant splattered paint from his brush On the landscape, his canvass, until sated. He didn't know. My family endured colorless years The only hue the yellow stars they were forced to wear To mark each as something less than a person, Exempt from even the most basic human rights. There's a chill in the air this time of year Smoke billows from the chimneys of dozens of homes And bonfires litter the neighborhood like cinders They don't know My mother can't see a chimney without crying Reminders of the chimneys at the camp Where her friends, relatives and nameless Jews Were released as grey smoke to hover and signal release. Everyday I see people covered in tattoos. Tattoo shops pop up offering expensive artwork Anywhere on the body, some covering every inch. They don't know. My mother had a tattoo way before they were popular. She did not choose it -- it was forced upon her by her jailers. A number tattooed in black on the inside of her arm Her only hope of being identified if she survived. The children born today have choices, And must never allow a "Holocaust" again; Choices to wear, eat, watch, think, and love what and who they want. Make sure they know.