History of Sorts

I saw a Holocaust picture in the shape of jigsaw earlier today, which inspired me to write this poem. I don’t know of there were any jigsaws in Auschwitz, but the thought intrigued me.

In a corner of barrack, cold and bare,
Lay pieces of cardboard, torn with care—
A jigsaw, faded, frayed with time,
A scattered prayer in puzzle’s rhyme.

No box, no picture to explain
What image formed through loss and pain,
But hands reached out with trembling grace
To piece together a gentler place.

A blue edge hinted at a sky,
Though none had seen it with their eye.
A patch of green—was it a tree?
Or just the dream of what could be?

Each fragment fit with breathless will,
A hush that made the night stand still.
They passed the pieces, soft and slow,
Like they were seeds they’d dared to sow.

A child found corners, rough and worn,
A mother matched a piece once torn,
An old man traced a shape, then wept—
A memory his soul had kept.

They built a meadow, or a face,
A window into some lost place.
And for a moment, in that frame,
The world forgot to play its game.

It wasn’t much—a jigsaw, old—
But in that dark, it dared be bold.
Each piece a whisper, soft and true:
We are still here. We still come through.

So if you ever chance to find
A puzzle missing half its mind,
Hold it gently—hear it speak—
Of human strength when days are bleak.