There are albums, yellowed by the ages,
lovingly amassed, anchored, leafed through
with affection for the villains the mothers never knew,
naiveté in eyes later jaundiced as these pages.
They squint in dappled sun or in front of painted stages
dressed in starchy clothing, only innocence askew,
unfamiliar with the carnage their later life will do
no signs of the perversions or latter insane rages
that tore up states, extinguished races.
Their legacy dread names in children’s books,
triumphant tales of their defeat
and did their mothers mourn those hated faces
clutching childish smiles, remembered looks
or was their fervent prayer for no repeat.
Survivor poem – Italian Sonnet – trigger 46
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