I’m Ruth, I’m seven years old
This place is not where I live!
My real home’s a pretty dream
Some strokes of my pencil
Will bring it alive for you
The merry go round’s such fun
My ears fill up with laughter, music, joy
The rise and fall of hooves on painted horses
If I close my eyes together and squeeze them tight
I can taste the ice cream, sweet and white, from a stall
If I close my eyes and wrap my arms around me
Very tight, Terezin melts like a lump of dirty snow
Whoosh! I’m up on a swing
Almost touching the clouds
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem