I am not a celebrity, so do not try to research me,
I wrote no diaries, you will not be able to read of my prior feelings,
My family came with me, and cannot verify anything I say,
My village no longer exists, and neither do my neighbours,
The only people who could tell of me, cannot remember me,
I was a face in the crowd,

A face in the crowd examined and sent to the left,
My examiner would remember me, if not for his workload,
He looked me in the eye, and asked my age,
No knowing soul had warned me; lie,
So I said as I always had with pride, sixty two
Upside down, he wrote keine tatowierung, is that good or bad?

So I’ll not feature in pictures, smiling with my liberators,
Or squatting on the side of a half filled pit,
I’ll not be a carcase on the floor,
Nor carried to my rest by shamed civilians,
But look closely at those photographs of masses by a train,
I’m there, over, and over, and over, again.