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Neville

There Are No Graves

There Are No Graves

 

 

There is no place no place at all

 

On which the wind might caress or blow or lay to store

 

Though blow it does relentlessly and it never fails to chill us

 

to the very core

… 

 

 

Likewise there are no graves or markers on which the snow might fall

 

Though fall it does believe me and it tends to burn us all

…  

 

 

There are no birds no birds at all

 

that respite on these rotting posts and rusting wire

 

There are no trees nor grass or leaves to provide shelter from the

 

impending storm

 

 

There are no words no words at all

 

that might describe the void this ache the sheer turmoil

 

The Auschwitz that contains my soul