Ainsley Chernek

Six million sticks,
Six million stones,
Six million thin
and starving bones.

Two paths, no choice,
shoved left or right,
half not surviving
into night.

Six digits scarred
into the skin.
A name now lost
to next of kin.

Columns, rows,
and lines of five,
wasting numbers
still alive.

Four gas chambers,
torrid screams.
Up in smoke stacks,
long lost dreams.

One voice, desperate
with foresight,
last words spoken,
"Jewish Children, Write!"

Copyright 2012, Ainsley Chernek. All rights reserved.

Return to Poetry