It was no secret what was happening… It was like killing rabbits… But people are not rabbits. Even after the war, when they could see that the survivors were not in fact rabbits but people, they still felt in their hearts that the dead ones had been rabbits. – Lionel Davidson, Making Good Again
Surrounded by poetry
pegged up prettily
to lure passers by
and in some cases translated
from the original pain
with killing pictures
the holocaust discussion group
faces eternal questions.
Did it? Do we have the right?
Could they? Can we? How long?
and
Did people really think
they were rabbits?
There may be a more sinister explanation, but
it is too late to ask questions,
and too early:
we crouch helplessly round a serious table
with personal pots of tea
and strained faces.
Only the poetry makes sense,
and not many people read poetry
nowadays
Poetry repeats itself.
It has to:
nobody listens.