The Mountains of the Dead
The Mountains of the Dead
I’ve seen the mountains of the dead,
the worn-down hobnailed boots,
a child’s pathetic pair of shoes,
those ladies’ heels in red and blue,
and stared at each macabre caress;
scuffed patent leather,
canvas twisted rubber soles,
threadbare laces noose tied,
forsaken footwear’s silent echoes
of ghettoes quickly cleared.
A million steps that led to death.
In moving epitaph to abandoned hope,
a pile of battered suitcases
bare the hasty scrawls of human beings
I’ll never know:
Klara Goldstein,
Peter Eisler,
Olga Kornfeld.
A lost property office
for the Lost.
Reaching out, ten thousand spectacles
watch me through a window,
peer deep into my soul, tug heartstrings
to my conscience,
these twisted frames,
the ultimate victims
of a twisted ideology.
One thousand lives
Extinguished
Every
Single
Day
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