You think about the shoes.
The small shoes, the big shoes. The little girl shoes, the heavy man shoes. Shoes that belonged to a florist, shoes that belonged to a banker. Sons and mothers, daughters and fathers, children and parents. A pile of shoes, stretched out under the sky, thick with the dust of bones.
There are footprints all over Europe, muted train tracks. Through fields and cities. Through apartments and farms. Minsk. Vilnius. Krakow. Berlin. Like stamps of disquiet.
Most stop. Most disappear. Sobibor. Chelmno. Auschwitz-Birkenau. You see through the snow, those who got away. They wander around, cross oceans, find new soil, dig in deep, make houses, make homes.
They carry shoes, you see. The weight of millions of shoes. The shoes of boys with sleepy smiles, girls with loud grins. The shoes of women with strong hands, men with soft eyes. We don't know their names, all of these people, gone without a trace, scattered ash in cold winds--but we hope for them, don't we?
We hope that we might remember and not forget. We hope for miracles, like butterflies. We hope for miracles, like yellow stars.
Written by Alice Zhao
The small shoes, the big shoes. The little girl shoes, the heavy man shoes. Shoes that belonged to a florist, shoes that belonged to a banker. Sons and mothers, daughters and fathers, children and parents. A pile of shoes, stretched out under the sky, thick with the dust of bones.
There are footprints all over Europe, muted train tracks. Through fields and cities. Through apartments and farms. Minsk. Vilnius. Krakow. Berlin. Like stamps of disquiet.
Most stop. Most disappear. Sobibor. Chelmno. Auschwitz-Birkenau. You see through the snow, those who got away. They wander around, cross oceans, find new soil, dig in deep, make houses, make homes.
They carry shoes, you see. The weight of millions of shoes. The shoes of boys with sleepy smiles, girls with loud grins. The shoes of women with strong hands, men with soft eyes. We don't know their names, all of these people, gone without a trace, scattered ash in cold winds--but we hope for them, don't we?
We hope that we might remember and not forget. We hope for miracles, like butterflies. We hope for miracles, like yellow stars.
Written by Alice Zhao