History of Sorts

I know the sight of a mouse might freak some people out, but I believe the best way to tell the story of the Holocaust is by simplicity and small portions. That’s why I chose the mouse to use in the narrative of this poem. It is something we can identify with.

In shadows deep, where silence screams,
A tiny soul with secret dreams,
A mouse, so small, in twilight’s veil,
Whispers tales of pain and pale.

In Auschwitz’s grim, forsaken sprawl,
Where human cries and echoes call,
The mouse with the fur of muted gray,
Scurries forth at close of day.

By barracks bleak and wire high,
Beneath a cold and moonless sky,
It seeks the crumbs of fading hope,
Amid the darkness, learning to cope.

With eyes like beads, so sharp, so bright,
It witnesses each harrowing night,
The sorrow etched in every face,
The haunting ghosts of this grim place.

In corners dark, it makes its lair,
A witness to the deep despair,
Yet still, it moves with nimble grace,
Through shadows of the human race.

No voice to speak, no tear to shed,
It lives among the living dead,
A silent watcher, frail and meek,
In Auschwitz, where the strong grow weak.

Its tale is one of silent plea,
A creature born to live and flee,
Yet in its eyes, a mirror shines,
Reflecting all the sorrowed lines.

In Auschwitz’s night, where horrors bloom,
A mouse becomes a thread of gloom,
A tiny life that moves unseen,
Amidst the tragic, ruthless scene.

So let us hear the mouse’s song,
A whisper of what went so wrong,
In memories, it softly treads,
A witness to the countless dead.