(For Gretha Frank, born in Amsterdam on December 4, 1939– murdered at Sobibor on July 16, 1943)
Born beneath the Dutch grey skies,
A baby’s laugh, a child’s bright eyes.
Winter’s chill could not confine,
The warmth of life, a spark divine.
Amsterdam streets cradled her feet,
A city’s hum, her heartbeat’s beat.
Innocence spun in golden threads,
Dreams that danced where sunlight led.
Yet shadows crept where joy once bloomed,
A star sewn tight, a fate presumed.
The train’s cruel cry, the air so cold,
Her story stolen, a life untold.
Sobibor’s soil, where silence reigns,
Holds her name amidst the pain.
No lullabies, no future’s song,
A light extinguished far too long.
But still she lives, in whispered breath,
A defiance of her stolen death.
Gretha Frank, a name, a spark,
A voice that echoes through the dark.
The world remembers, history speaks,
Through shattered hearts and tear-stained cheeks.
Her story shines where hate once thrived,
A plea for love to keep her alive.
Source
History of Sorts 
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