Two Great Poems, Two Great Poets
We Will Never Forget - Auschwitz
by Alexander Kimel (Holocaust Survivor)
We will never forget the selections at Auschwitz,
Where Black Jackals condemned millions to gas,
Right - death, left - life, right death... death ...death.
The black finger, surrounded with barking dogs,
Works like the Angel of Death, creating living hell.
Children are torn apart from the tender embrace
Of mothers, clinging to their treasures.
Babies wailing from hunger,
Parents parting tearfully with their children.
Fathers shaken with helpless rage.
The condemned form a column of trembling fear.
Soon the mass of fainting humanity
Is lead to the clean foyer of death.
Disrobe quickly, take a shower and you will be fed.
Food! Food! The hungry mass of disoriented humanity
Awakens, runs and fights to get into the chamber of gas.
The heavy door closes and the cyclone dropped.
Soon the parents choke and turn blue,
Later the children turn rigid with death
The people become a twisted load,
Of intertwined limps and heads, glued with blood.
When the human pulp is ready for the works,
Sondercommando quickly pull
The bodies apart, peel the gold from the mouths.
And the remains are taken to the open pit,
Where the bones are cleaned with fire,
And the fat drained for human soap.
Six days a week the Jackals drink beer,
And rejoice doing the Devil's work.
Sunday is the day of rest, the day
When the Jackals ride to the Church, to praise God
And assure the salvation of their pious souls.
Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles!
In this Kingdom of Evil,
There is no peace for the Righteous.
It is the wicked that inherited
This tortured World, engulfed
In the white, dense, cry absorbing fog.
A fog, that guards the wilted conscience of man.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.