Babi Yar, from desolation to disease,
The heart, fitful fraught, a weary travellar
And no one left a shadow's worth
Of what they were.
Who could survive even with blood pumping?
Fingers feeling stiff air through the throat
And tapping faint heart at the limp wrist.
You did not live to forget.
Above the mass, a carnage of progress,
You crawled naked and utterly alone,
And what bright light
Beckoned your heart to this?
Across frigid fields, over bodies
In a half sunk grave.
What dear Christian took you in,
And forgave the mark of your race?
What dear Christian pushed you out,
And laughed with scorn at the shameful face?
In Babi Yar the lamb was cut down,
Its rampant blood spilled slowly.
All the world could smell the stain of defeat
And turn away once more their shameful face.