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In memory of My Town -- Wysokie Litewskie

Alone and quietly I pray
On the fire and burning of the whole community,
On the sorrow and grief of a beloved mother,
Which in sacredness and [???] went into the flames. Years have gone by as nothing had happened.

My town has seen 42 years of commemoration. I don't know if I will recognize anything
even though not everything has been destroyed and not all is desolation.
The bushes on the riverbank have not been uprooted,
The fields of Polesie have been sown the yield.

Standing at the Beit Merhatz at the end of town,
In the Jewish Blacksmith's shop, another song is heard,
and --on Friday-- to the small Beit Merhatz,
not running the blacksmith, not running the bath attendant.

On the way to the Beit Hamidrash, a herb garden has grown
No roof, no doors, glass missing from the windows.
The walls have remained orphans.
All the precious and all the holy [objects] crumbled as if they never existed,
All the shops were broken into and plundered,
Swastikas drawn on the sidewalk.

And when the [village] fairs are gathered, as in the past,
Everybody is there, only not the Jews.

In the month of Elul, when the harvest is over,
The sound of the Shofar is no longer heard in the town.The fruit orchards have spread further
From Swititz, Karvene, and Kurash. One doesn't see Jews; their ashes have been scattered.

There is no longer a happy yid [?]
Demonstrating his dancing skills

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