Times are old,
The past has scared,
And we hesitate to remember.

Butterflies would dance
Flowers would flourish.
Hopscotch was our game
And singing was our fame.

Our childhood dreams were soon crushed
With the reality of tyranny.
Forced to sew on yellow stars
And follow awful rules,
We quickly lost our innocence.

Live couldn’t not get worse it seemed
Until the train cars.
A stench of with urine and other waste,
Crowded as our thanksgiving table used to be.
They were trains taking us to hell.

Work was murderous in every way possible
Rocks kept coming
And the runs were grueling and torturous.

The overwhelming physical pain was not the worse.
Watching my friends and family members
Going into a building, and never coming out.
The smoke billowing from buildings,
What was their fuel I used to wonder.

Rumors swept around
Of Americans and fellow Europeans coming
And we were shuffled from camp to camp
On death marches, submitting to the grasp of winter.

But then the day came.
Our calm controllers fled like mice chased by a cat
And tanks rolled in firing bullets,
But for once they weren’t at us.

Finally we could rebuild our homes
And survey the damage done
To our home land and our families.
Winter seemed to finally end
And death no longer ruled.

We sit in our rocking chairs
Looking out into the streets.
Smiling, we watch our grandchildren
Playing hopscotch with the butterflies.