Final Hour
Katie Gayton
(Worcester)
We march on through
The dreary den
Of which we Jews lie
Through men of age
And children small
The Star of David
Cries.
We travel miles
Through the crowds
Of them with no Possessions
And then down to
The place of which
Will be our final
Hour.
The door is locked
There’s no way out
Their scraping at the door
One blow of gas
And silence waits
Me, us, we
The Jewish fall