ANNY'S TRAIN.

ANNY TAKES THE TRAIN.

As you board the busy
Morning underground
Train, she’s there again:

Anny with blonde hair
And blue eyes and lost
Little girl stare, sitting

In the seat opposite with
Ghostly hands folded in
Her ghostly lap, shoes

Together touching at the
Toes. No one else sees
Her it seems or if they

Do, they do not stare at
Her 1940s clothes or style
Of hair. She sways with

The train, her eyes fixed
On you, her silence not
Frosty, but almost holy,

A deep reach right in and
Not touch an end kind of
Peaceful thing. You want

To speak or beckon her to
Your side, but you don’t,
You just sit and stare at

Anny with her ghostly
Gaze, blue eyes and long
Blonde hair. I do not like

Trains, she says softly and
Suddenly the words taking
Flight in the air, but no one

Else seems to know or hear
Or if they do don’t care.
The last train took me to

Auschwitz, the cold, smell,
And death tainting the air,
The breath. You nod, but

Do not speak, words fail
You, words seem too light
To carry such heavy grief,

Such deep sadness. The
Train draws into the station
And stops and passengers

Get on and off like busy
Bees as Anny closes her
Eyes, smiles at you, with

Her ghostly hands resting
Gently on ghostly knees.

Author's Note

ANNY YOLANDE HOROWITZ DIED IN AUSCHWITZ IN 1942.