Treblinka Poem by David Fainman

Still -
A small town in Poland
Farmers, wagons, pigs…
And in summer
A phoenix of flowers.
It carries a church,
Old and worn
Like a boot, like a rosary fingered,
Off which mud and more
May slide, smoother than faith.

A train runs through
Softly hissing,
It is a sign of the times
To hide one's smoke,
To shut ash away better.
The houses are quite ash free
With a hint of growth, hushed.

A shop sells
Food, clothes, lampshades,
And to burn - fat logs only.
Some residents are also stout,
Have red faces
As if the blood stained their skins,
Not quite burned, not quite
Embarrassed by light,
Must be the cold,
The starkness of having nothing
To live down,
Not enough to burn.
It can be hard work living here.

You may hear the usual laughs,
Shouts, whistles, the odd cry….
It is a quiet, ordinary place
With nothing else to see now or to say,
Save a clearing, sudden in the forest,
Where you'll find a field of stones.