A thousand lenses, thick with dust,
lie tangled in a heap of rust,
frames twisted like the lives they bore,
left broken there upon the floor.
Each pair once rested on a nose,
brought blurred lives close and clear;
each bridge and temple bent and worn,
a testament to seeing here.
Round, thin, and wire-bound,
child-sized frames to old, stout rims—
each one a witness, each one bound
to visions ended at the whims
of hands that stripped them from their face
then cast them down to grow in place.
Through those lenses, they once read
letters, faces, hope now dead.
Eyeglasses—now a silent scream,
their sightless gaze a frozen dream
of lives, they framed in tender light,
now lost within an endless night.
And though they lie in metal mounds,
some visions live, some strength resounds—
a solemn pile of shattered sight,
yet in those shards, a glint of light.
sources
https://www.auschwitz.org/en/gallery/historical-collection/plunder-of-goods,1.html
History of Sorts 
Leave a comment