Now I know how 100,000 bodies look
Buried in soft ground;
or at least I know their shape,
How much land they fill.
I know that grass
Grows greener
with humans as fertiliser.
I am haunted by the curve of souls,
the twist of necks as children land on hundreds of other
Whimpering not-yet-dead terrified horrified ghosts.
It would have been easier if it were packed to the brim.
The angle of the walls and the half-filled horseshoe
Makes it impossible not to calculate depths
And volume. The mind balks at such figures.
The eye stares and stares and hammers it home.
In two days, they shot 34,000 of you. There is a man
Walking his dogs on your bodies now. I am blank.
Tortured stone stands now at the point
Where they pushed you into infinity
I walk slowly around the edge of the ravine,
And as I step onto the pathway up to the centre,
100,000 ghosts step with me and I am overwhelmed
gutwrenched wracked broken punched ripped
by your terror and your dread. I shudder sobs with every step.
I think my great-grandfather might be in here.
I think my great-grandfather might be sleeping here.
My mother says now: these are not your people.
Don’t you understand? They were as bad as the Nazis,
These Ukrainians. Stood by and did nothing.
We are exiles returning, seeking something we don’t understand.
Seeking a people, a meaning, a hope.
I belong nowhere now. All my people are dead.