The men who wait
I see it return:
the bombed trainloads with death at their throats,
the grey faces in lorries;
the corpses of Jews that still breathe, and stars on their coats;
even the stars marching in armies across the sky.
The moaning of sirens,
the siren itself stopped when death caught it unawares,
the smoke in our mouths, glass carpets on pavements,
the man's arm in the ruins, the rape of his girl in the gutter . . .
and people remembering what a peace was.
I see them watch amazed,
three million men who died.
I see them return to watch with horror
the proceeds of their sacrifice,
the dividends of death come back
spewed from the throats of bomber planes
to haunt and desecrate the graves of the already dying.
But the angry dead,
the men who fought and yes the men they could not kill,
remain to guard,
remain to testify,
remain to judge.
Unmoved by lies and literary fog,
the snailtrails in the sky,
they will remain.
Nothing will silence them, nothing will quiet their voices;
they will continue standing there
and soon, someone must see them waiting.
1948
