“I used to write at stops, in a meadow under a pine tree, sitting on a stump. Everything seemed important and if I did not note it down I would forget. An irretrievable loss to humanity.” – Janusz Korczak
The sun peeled the
gray from clouds,
burning their pewter lining.
Mid-day February and
sick students were having
troubled afternoon naps.
Their dry heaves echoed
in the doctor’s ears-- he had
nothing to cure a cough,
no antidote for a fever.
The flu flooded the ghetto
like a forgotten fog.
The children lay tightly
curled in their cots-- they
lay pale, restlessly immobile.
With every turning groan,
their clothes ruffled like wet paper.
Some orphans cried but
nobody made a sound.
Many prayers are silent.
Below the venting glass
panes, standing on the sleet
encrusted sidewalk, soldiers
laughed while slurping soup-
Korczak’s stomach twisted
as he heard uneaten broth
splash and sizzle in the snow.
The fragrant steam slid
through cracked windows;
he listened as his children
sniffed and moaned. He had
no bowls to scrape with
spoons they did not possess.
About Janusz Korczak
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