by Liv-Christine Hoem
They are white as the snow in November streets, and faces,
without a smile and two moons for eyes. There is no room
for hope here, do not say our names. Wipe us out,
we are the scars in the walls now, and even
if you have forgotten us, we will never forget ourselves,
while the flames grow in the edges of the photographs.
No, do not say our names, and let us burn quietly,
into the lives we never got.