Looking into their eyes, I’ve wondered if they knew?
Did they understand that the time beneath the grove of trees was their last?
Children played, old men talked, and women handed out bread
Soon they lined up and marched like good Jews
They carried clothing, suitcases, toys,
the things they brought on the train ride from home.
Coats, hats, scarfs, and shoes, socks, undergarments
treasures to those conducting the day.
Home, roundup, train, gun, then a pleasant place beneath the grove of trees
Some may have asked what it all could mean
Stand tall little ones as you walk, old ones lift up your chins
mothers look brave for the photographs, soon it will be all that’s left.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty
the decades that roll on and the photographs remain.
Looking into their eyes, I have to wonder if they knew?
Did they understand that the time beneath the grove of trees was their last?
Their faces, their eyes, their fear, their common star
reminds us today that they could not understand.
We know that the time beneath the grove of trees was their last
and photographs remain with us to speak out Never Again!
Clinton Thomas ©2008
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