A Poem For The Burnt Out Belarusian Houses

this is the poem,

for the 628 belarusian villages

burned alive

matchstick-frame houses

with their people inside

while they watched you die

they led you to the square

and slaughtered you there

this is the poem,

for the grandmother

laid living dead in the street

why bother, says one to the other

they killed you with laughter

this is the poem,

for the mother

who tried to push her child

out a window

clinging to your shirt,

wailing, your babies

died screaming

this is the poem,

for the father

trying to shove his way

out of the flaming barn

they shot at your feet when you wouldn’t listen

beating your fists bloody on the door

this is the poem,

for the boy

turned partisan

the one who escaped

hidden in the trees,

a rifle over his knees

he no longer dreams

This is a poem,

for the children of the Khatyn massacre

that is to say,

the ghosts

left behind

in the belarusian countryside

immolated

for nothing.