The Shoes
The shoes were placed
row on row,
large and small,
some with laces,
some without,
black and brown.
If shoes could speak,
if their leather tongues
could pronounce words,
what hard histories
they could tell,
what deep sadness
they could relate,
and there at Auschwitz,
Anny Horowitz’s shoes
lay silent, cast off,
forcefully abandoned,
left to their fate,
no history told,
no biography to relate.
poem by Terry Collett
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