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Poem by a Holocaust Survivor- I fell beside him and his corpse turned over, tight already as a snapping string. Shot in the neck. And that's how you'll end too, I whispered to myself. Lie still; no moving. Now patience flowers in death. Then I could hear "Der springt noch auf," Above, and very near. Blood mixed with mud was drying on my ear.

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  • This is a translation of the last poem by Miklos Radnoti, a Hungarian poet. Unfortunately, he died in captivity with many others, exactly the way it is described here. After the war they found his notebook in the grave they were buried in and so his poems survived. By the way, whoever did the translation, did it really well, respect for that.

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