In the pristine forests
north of Kiev
is a ravine
undisturbed beauty
a peaceful place
renowned in the world
as Babi Yar.

There is little to hint
of what happened there
no graves or signs
or markers like those
of their forefathers
they passed on the road
to Babi Yar.

There is peace in the woods
north of Kiev
but ghosts haunt the valley
restless souls of thousands
of innocents
roaming the ravine
at Babi Yar.

There is no evidence
of the carnage
no witnesses
to the pit and pyre
as thousands perished
in the ravine
at Babi Yar.

In the pristine forests
north of Kiev
there is no peace
for those who know
what happened
in the ravine
at Babi Yar.

Down from the train
the ruse begins
words of cheer
amid the guards
facing guns
fearing dogs.

To the showers
the ruse portrays
no diseases here
crowding together
walking slowly
on the ashes of kin.

Into the bleak room
the ruse reigns
stripped and bare
holding babies
waiting for cleansing
abandoning hope.

To be chosen
left or right
one to the showers
one to the barracks
one to die
one to waste away.

Pass angry dogs
amid the ruse
massed together
clutching children
walking the trail
to selection.

One to the left
one to the right
one to the showers
one to the barracks
one to die
one to waste away.

Selection
is the mere motion
one to the left
one to the right
one selected to die
one selected to live.

One to die
one to live
no hope for either
no choice in selection.

Huffing
puffing, chugging into camp
dragging their cattle cars
loaded with chattel
workers for the mills
fodder for the ovens.

Holding
to their innocence
embracing hope
denying what is known
going right, left
clinging to small hands.

Filing
one upon another
creeping forward
to an unknown fate
trembling, praying
the end will be soon.

Learning
they will leave on
tomorrow morning’s train
grasping at shallow hopes
but tomorrow morning
never comes.

Long rows of barracks
filled with valises
the lives of those who came
innocently
their last possessions
meager belongings
taken to Kanada
for sorting
for stealing
to feed the avarice
of a hungry beast.

These are the piles
of their last things:
rooms of eyeglasses
heaps of shoes
suits and dresses
cans of fruit
bottles of wine
silver, gold, gems
purses with compacts
toys and dolls
not needed anymore.

Fog hugs the still night
and darkness holds its secrets
hidden in the recesses
of its bosom
protecting them
from those who don’t know
covering the crimes
of those who skulk in the fog
and hide in the night.

And yet another train passes
beneath the arch
its false slogan an irony
promising freedom for work
as workers cling to hope
grasping their children
holding them to their bosoms
unaware of the secrets
hidden in the night.

Arbeit macht frei
for those who don’t know
who cling to false notions
of the justice of men
who believe they will be free
giving hard work
to die under the strain
as their children are chosen
and become like night and fog.

Why is the wall black?
The wall between ten and eleven
the final place for those
no longer needed.

Is it a wall of peace?
The wall between torture and evil
the last stop for those
chosen to die.

Is it a wall for wailing?
The wall between evil and cruel
the end station for those
who can cry no more.

Is it a wall of salvation?
The wall between heaven and hell
the halting spot for those
who still have hope.

Is it a wall of damnation?
The wall between hell and heaven
the conclusion for those
who have lost hope.

Why is the wall black?
The wall between ten and eleven
the wall for those who stand alone
who die between the blocks.

Why is the wall black?

A man
young and blonde
delicate features
a target for cruelty
a puppet for men
a toy to use, to abuse.

A soldier
thick and strong
a criminal in society
a soldier in uniform
a manipulator
user of men, abuser.

The death head
prominent
upon his cap
shown to frighten
a weapon to use
to intimidate.

And yet his pipel
was too frail, too light
to tighten the noose
dangling, strangling,
slowly dying.

The shot crashed like thunder
a small crack from his pistol
stilling his pipel
performing one kindness
in his miserable life.

They had known it as the Wisla
a waterway flowing northwards
the noble river by their homes
bringing nourishment to their crops
meandering through fields of wheat
bringing relief on summer days.

It was called the Vistula
when they saw it from the slave train
in the far south, west of Krakow
a small place named Oswiecim
a community now called
Auschwitz-Birkenau-Monowitz.

There they learned the harsh cruelty
of men, of evil beyond belief
of such things as red brick houses
where the innocents entered
and breathed their last precious breaths
and died in bleak chambers of gas.

It is beside the Vistula
their mangled bodies and lost lives
were pillaged and plundered
and they were tossed like rubbish
into ovens to vanish in smoke
their memory reduced to ashes.

They were taken to the river
and dumped to join the current
as the Vistula carried north
their ashes through fields of wheat
pass the farms upon its green banks
bringing them home once again.

Los! Los!
Hurry! Run!

Leave a death camp
march down the road
die along the way
a bullet in the head
yet more merciful
than another camp
more hideous
for those alive.

Los! Los!
Hurry! Run!

Desert another camp
tossed on to a train
just chattel to move
one place to another
yet no work to do
just march on aimlessly
one foot, then another
one step, no bullet.

Los! Los!
Hurry! Run!

East, west, north, south
run this way, that way
danger here, there
don’t fall, don’t delay
keep standing, stagger
one foot, then another
don’t accept a bullet
in back of the head.

Los! Los!
Hurry! Kill!

It never happened
they assert
time and time again
complaining of the bombings
savagery of other armies.

They never knew of it
they insist
time and time again
complaining of their suffering
abuses of lesser men.

It wasn’t wide spread
they admit
time and time again
complaining of their losses
crudeness of inferior people.

They say little
eyes a glaze
with the names
Dachau, Therenstadt,
Buchenwald.

They were teenagers when forced
to shovel dirt upon bodies
that still moved with a frequent moan
as armed guards walked back and forth
pushing them harder.

They were told to speak not
of that day, to forget what they saw
men, women, and children, wasted bodies
thrown into the deep pit
some dead, some alive.

And time passed and grass grew
covering the pit with weeds and flowers
and people went about their own way
by the quiet, green meadow
no thought of those there.

Some looked out kitchen windows
at the field where cattle grazed and memories
of another time so many years before
when they were forced to bury
innocents alone.