Oswiecim 
  

If you could tell me why the trees weep to the east 
I would then know why that day  
began in a haze of quivering grey  
gone all soft at the centre 

spitting last night's afterthoughts 
into puddles and streams, carrying them away  
to some place the locals have only half forgotten. 
I would then know why the train stopped just here - 

a kilometre away from nowhere. 
When I put my head outside the carriage window 
the train lapsed into silence 
the grass no longer fluttered 

and the houses lining the track watched  
impassively with their unseeing eyes,  
pretending not to notice although  
they were called upon to witness. 

It was then I saw in the distance 
just there -in that spot - 
the air was shivering, undulating - 
twisting and dancing along the ground  

before ascending in waves  
of yesterday's heat. 
And the trees trembled to look at it 
all green and quavering 

they began to moan  
invisible faces wailed  
teeth chattered in leaves 
their lips already disappeared  

and the wind flew in a rage at the heavens 
and the heavens spit upon the wind 
because they were tired of never forgetting 
when the train lurched east with a shriek  

of brakes and a thud  
giving the impression of movement  
while the trees shook their histories at me 
still weeping in indignation. 
  

Oswiecim is the Polish name for Auschwitz