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