by Mif, a child in Terezin
his last name is unknown
A four year of waiting, like standing above
From which any moment might gush forth a spring.
Meanwhile, the rivers flow another way.
Not letting you die, not letting you live.
And the cannons don't scream and the guns don't
you don't see blood here.
Nothing, only silent hunger.
Children steak the bread here and ask and ask
And all would wish to sleep, keep silent and just go
to sleep again . . .
The heaviest wheel
rolls across our foreheads.
To bury itself deep somewhere inside our memories.
by an unknown child in Terezin
I've lived in the ghetto here more than a year,
Terezin, in the black town now,
And when I remember my old home so dear,
I can love it more that I did, somehow.
Ah, home, home,
Why did they tear me away?
Here the weak die easy as a feather
And when they die,
they die forever.
Yet we all hope the time will come
When we'll go home again.
Now I know how dear it
And often I remember it.