By Geoffrey Hill
born 19.6.32—deported 24.9.42
Undesirable you may have been, untouchable
you were not. Not forgotten
As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
terror, so many routine cries.
(I have made
an elegy for myself it
September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.
This is plenty. This is more than enough.
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