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