We are the photographs, we are the last witnesses.
We are memories from mothers and grandmothers
From Rome, Berlin, and Paris.
And because we are only made of paper and ink
And not of blood and flesh, each of us avoided the hell fire.
We images-- that used to hang in the hallways of a struggling families home
Or with loving fathers and grandfathers in the wallets they carry,
We the snapshots from simple jews, from teachers and nurses,
From beaming children of the world, just beginning their education
On achieving occasions, graduating and even until the time of giving birth, to a wedding, to an anniversary
Or quietly-- to a funeral.
Unceasingly we dull. We fade into blank space.
The hangman never had a chance to snatch us, into his sack of loot-- now we wait.
Let everyone imagine our beauty and ponder, which goes up in smoke with the sky,
Along with the remains of our keepers who once were.
