Auschwitz

So cold and gloomy lies the camp,
The steel of its ovens,
The cement of its death chambers
Tell us so many bitter-sad stories,
Nearby, there are the fields
And my eye wanders
Over the bright flowers
As if nothing had happened,
But one cannot forget,
The wind rustles in the trees
With a thousand voices,
Voices which call us
From the quiet present
Into a horrible past.
They say: "Please remember us,
Hear our lament,
Do not forget us,
Women, men, children,
The dead from Auschwitz."

The sun, so warmly it shines,
So fragrantly bloom the flowers,
But the wind, the wind
Touches my very soul
Like an icy hand.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2006 Alfred Charasz