seventeenth century, however, were small, they were fragile, were human. Looking out from the wagons, with weakness, eyes that did not want to see more, crammed into cattle wagons. But I saw those, the other, the strong out of the car. They, laughing. They were tall and proud. They were animals. Almost six hundred
have not returned. On January 30, the platform 21, back, each year.
Yesterday we were more than many, we shook hands with Foza memory, the weak, small, trembling fingers that violence has eaten away most of the sixth year ago . Those six hundred hands have felt the cold winter, a cold cruel, penetrating, more deaf dumb and blind. No one was more than the windows to watch as six hundred lives, young, old, babies slipped off a rail and indifference of a cold January day. The fingers of those six hundred, of that thirties, every January 30 right there, next to the track of death, will be tight in the heat of memory, not in bitter indifference, the power of memory never violent, ever more deafening.
will silence every year, carved in cement. And it is above, again and again, the seventeenth century.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PO7--7gHUQ8&NR=1
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