Amid the echoes of a time gone by,
Where shadows linger and whispers sigh,
Rest the suitcases in silent rows,
Each one is a story of countless woes.
Labeled with names, now lost to the wind,
Symbols of hope that would rescind,
Children and elders, families are torn
Dreams are abandoned, and lives are reborn.
Leather worn thin by hands in haste,
Packed with treasures, laid to waste,
Photographs, letters, a child’s toy,
Silent testaments to love and joy.
Each suitcase holds a world inside,
A glimpse of lives—that could not hide
From the relentless march of time,
Into a darkness so sublime.
Yet, in this stillness, voices rise,
From the shadows to the skies,
Whispering truths, we must not forget,
Of pain and loss and deep regret.
For, in these cases, stories keep,
Of dreams deferred, of endless sleep,
And as we gaze upon this sight,
We vow to carry forth their light.
A haunting testament they stand,
Of pain endured and hope unplanned,
In Auschwitz’s depths, they softly cry,
A plea for peace, a mournful sigh.
In these artifacts of grief and loss,
We find a memory to emboss,
To carry forth, to never fade,
The stories that these lives conveyed.
For every name, a soul, a face,
A fragment of the human race,
And as we gaze upon this sight,
We vow to carry forth their light.
Sources
History of Sorts 
Leave a comment