The bone-white wind of this century
A prayer-shawl of human ash.
And still the hand lifts
The intrepid pencil,
The chip of charcoal,
Against the plunder, the ordure, the roaring.

And still the soul craves to make bridgeable
The space between the careworn
And the dead,
Craves never to quit the embattled earth
Unrecorded,
The unstainable soul:

This is the charnel house art,
The epistle,
Cached in the sleep-safe tin,
Inviolable, brought to the air:

Dear Finder,

In Terezin,
By the meager bread-carts,
In Auschwitz,
Beside the rooms of shaved hair--
Tell someone I was here.