The Gardens of the Vincent Contini

The house, the gardens
All overgrown, neglected,
Once so well manicured,
Cared for, well protected,
The stately mansion,
Tenniscourt in disarray
Where once a noble, revered,
Old family used to stay,
For generations, finely bred,
They had class and gentility,
But being of the Jewish faith
Was termed their disability,
The Fascists sized their goods,
Sent them to German camps,
Where they were gassed and
Murdered in some Polish swamps,
The world, the Church, the Pope
All did not seem to care
How all the Jews, the people
Of the Book would fare,
And Jesus, the Jewish God
Of love, could he but see
The horrid crimes, the genocide,
The torture and the misery
Brought to his people
By his followers brutality
Would in despair
Just shake his head
And never, ever comprehend
That all his teachings of
Brotherly love take such an end.

Over the years the house
And gardens have turned to dust,
The family's ashes lie in the
Camp's ovens mixed with rust,
But if you pass the old abandoned
Gardens on a windy night,
You hear a rustling of the trees,
Like voices full of fright,
Telling their story to the
Wary stranger passing through:
"Never forget what they did to us,
It could happen to you..."

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2006 Alfred Charasz