And listen. There’s a counterpoint
of laughter threading family
and friends. Before the century
splits, shifts key, marches
towards darker, evil sounds.
The film’s pace is slower now,
it’s hard to watch this saraband
of frames that steals her children,
sees her parents shrink and wither
on their bones.
The soundtrack’s mournful oboe,
the camera pans a scene that
mirrors Hell, then shows close-up
her well of tears so weary
that they dry before they fall.
New scene, a ragged orchestra
playing tunes with starved performer’s
breath. They’re forced to drive the death
machines, abuse beloved music,
waltz their fellow souls to death.
Cut to dumb crescendo. Silence
mutes the joy of seeing prisoners
free. The screen is out of reach
the film is sixty years away
we could never touch their need.
The flick and clack of film reel slips
to cleaner, smoother footage
Of our times, where survivors whisper
twists of fate as though their bleak
resilience was a crime.
Their guilt is that they stayed alive
when others from their family
did not. Our guilt should be that
prejudice and torment are still
thriving and have not been stopped.
Our mouths still twist and turn at those
whose lives, beliefs and creeds are not
the same. We must listen to the music
of the dead, refuse the rhythm
of the racist’s drum.
Instead let us remember
the essence of the people who
are gone. Let us knot their stories,
weave them to a warning so we’ll
never tread that road again,
make their memories a song
to lift the ignorance that stalks
our heedless world. And this will be
a legacy, a lullaby
to croon to every unborn child.
We will tie it to each cradle,
a pledge to keep them safe, ensure
that it’s enough. Their future
would be dark with only bitterness,
without the dignity of love.