The last time I was there
on a cloudy Sunday
Down under, we walked,
a drone buzzing above us,
like a lethal metallic bird,
as Sam and Jack
and I,
dressed in black and white,
walked around the stones,
cameras and microphones whirring and crackling behind us
tailing us to tell a tale of Revenge.
I saw the phantoms of my childhood days,
Mina and Joe, Mr. Roth, and Mrs. Wagen,
Dr. Rosenberg, Chaya and the Chizek family
engraved in stones, names etched into
grey, black, and brown granite,
white and pinkish marble slabs.
A rocky gravel path led us to
Boris and Chana, at peace at last.
Fima, Jadzia and Moniek's stones
were there too, flanking them
as they had through the war,
blocks of hardness, standing silent,
in line, waiting
for our visit
or for the end of days,
whichever might come first.
Noone shed a tear this time.
