The moss covered mounds
in a forest near Tylocin
are almost conveniently forgotten
not so easily found,
no crosses here,
no stones of remembrance.
Among the trees the lamentations,
the unheeded appeals, echo yet
the cries of pain,
blood upon the leaves,
and the lorry departing again
for another load from the locked synagogue.
They shot the old man
unable to walk the path to the pit,
the final solution.
Today in the synagogue museum
young Poles play respectfully the wild music of the lost
grey memories haunting the peaceful woods.