Weissensee: and this is not a poem

and this is not a poem
but frozen memories,
thawing inside,
blood and pride and joy

here the stones on life
exhaled, Jews of Berlin,
these shaped us, our minds,
talk to us from  graves

mixing with the  calls
from people starving,
mutilated, killed and burnt,
all asking: why

here where my father walked
in the confusion of his time,

here where i see him sad

and shaking his head 

here where i see his wounds

and i still ask why, with all

the others, tears come

and the silence answers

and this is not a poem