The Not Yet Dead
Vacantly we stood at the wire,
Skeletons in prison strips,
To watch the guards at shift retire,
Their healthy flesh, their clothing ripe.
We stood depressed, our mouths agape,
A soundless demonstration,
Our children dead, our women raped,
A silent protestation.
What joy to see a human laugh
In clean and polished clothes,
To joke and tease along the path,
Their cheeks a burning rose.
We the stubborn, not-yet-dead,
A link to they the living,
Think of us while chewing bread
And you shall be forgiven.
Comments about this poem (The Not Yet Dead by David McLansky )
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