Ice fingers reach out, grip and bind. The crooked teeth of winter grind The biting air. The wind whips oaks Whose roots are red That feed on Babi Yar’s long dead. Frozen in time, a torn ravine, Still photos of a killing scene. The shot still rings, the victims Hang mid fall, still seeing The cliffs of ice engulf their being. The trees stand sentinel and keep A watch on Babi Yar’s long sleep. The trees’ wide arms a barrier, The oak leaf’s fingers scatter tears, This is no place for prying stares … Deep inside collective mind The forest…

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