This is for Jane Dougherty’s November Month with Yeats, Day Nine. The quotation is:
“Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.”
I was also inspired, or perhaps haunted, by this article that I saw last night about a girl’s pendant found at Sobihor.
Once she played and laughed upon a hill,
once there were families, hope, delight
before darkness came and all was still
in a nightmare world of constant night
monster-filled with hate and fear
and all that once was cherished and held dear
lost forever, or perhaps entombed
within the ruins, amidst the gloom.
Years passed in revolutions round the sun,
and grass sprouted in ashes cooled of fired hate
buried there, searchers found that she was one
in rubble raked beyond the gate
found there, a victim of the slaughter,
someone’s child, once a daughter,
found her broach, inscribed, a sign, a trace
that she existed once, now not entirely erased.
But does this finding some closure bring
to those who are left or suffering?
The ashes of the dead once rained like sordid snow
fertilizing now the ground where flowers grow
light’s restored, but mutable
and darkness still falls, indisputable,
hope the feather that softly flies
from wings of knowledge and wistful sighs.