Above us: cawing rooks and grey clouds. <br />Around us: leafless trees and falling snow. <br />It’s late in January, 60 years <br />since Gleiwitz-Petersdorf was “liberated.” <br /> <br />Anne, a frail and tiny woman of eighty, <br />and the last Silesian on our street, <br />points her left hand toward the frozen ground <br />and rests her right upon a walking stick. <br /> <br />—“When Stalin’s army came, the NKVD <br />tortured, raped and massacred our people. <br />Both of my parents were among the dead <br />buried here inside a mass grave.”— <br /> <br />In her sad voice there are hints of dialect. <br />—“Later on, Poles from the East exhumed them, <br />planted trees, and built this lovely park.”— <br />The dialect of the dead, and the vanquished.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-silesian/
