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Alas, German Mothers
Who so love their children They give not a sword But bread with butter. They fill their bellies While our children die- Not even a slice of bread Like cats sick with hunger, In ditches, in ghettos of death to fill quotas. With no excitement You hear this news, No twinge in your heart. If were taken from you Your beloved children Your blonde-headed children. Apparently, here have returned The days of the Tartars! If you could hear the screams go up And then see the piles of bodies; If you could feel the pain of the mothers Torn from their babies- Would that in strange lands, In camps, in ghettos Burning with longing You'd die at forced labor In poverty, misery. Alas, German mothers, You cannot feel. Your hearts are stone.
by Fanya Zorne
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