Still, Still
Shmerke Kaczerginski
1942
Still, still, let us be still.
Graves grow here.
Planted by the enemy,
they blossom to the sky.
All the roads lead to Ponar,
and none returns.
Somewhere father disappeared,
disappeared with all our joy.
Be still, my child, don’t cry, my treasure;
tears are of no avail.
No matter the fury of your tears,
the enemy will not notice.
Rivers open into…
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