not Hitler's story
but the holocaust's story
not the hope of the Aryans
but the crushed dreams of the rejected.
to splash through murky waters in a fog of despair
to carve the throat of a young nightingale learning to sing,
the stem trying to grow when its petals are wilting,
sunken eyes trying to sparkle.
to breathe though the air is poisonous
to remember love when life is drowning in hate
to remember to dream when fate is carved
on the arm of a child.