Part 1 of this poem can be found here.
A pogrom is a violent riot aimed at the massacre or expulsion of an ethnic or religious group, particularly one aimed at Jews. (Wiki)
There is no tale like this within my family, or just no one left to tell this horror tale.
Photo by Majid Rangraz
“if we survive this forest journey…”
Now that is a memory forgotten
lost in flames, turned into the ash
poisoning the ground once healthy, breathing.
If we survive this forest journey,
we will gather strength that’s left
and head to a loud and spooky city
covered by the greyish puffy cloud and
electricity – strange magic of the mind and time.
Our dresses will be different,
more practical, accepted in this world,
like the music that we’ll play, tapping with the flow;
happiness reborn and found when the window opened
introduces melody of the instrument outside,
not a scream of terror piercing someone’s heart with hate.
Eventually, the children will grow older,
They will draft, voluntarily, with pride;
join the war, share the plate in the trenches
with now-forgotten foe
from the nightmares almost faded.
It’s because the differences are buried when the
danger looming overhead;
missiles are the most progressive of us all,
not judging victim by the ethnicity, religion.
Vladimir Fischer 