It is raining in Krakow.

In Kazimierz the stones are weeping.

These old streets once knew steel and boots.

Bewildered children watched men with

beards and braided locks shuffle by.

Death rode in their eyes.

The streets lament their passing.

Who will pray in empty synagogues?

There was hope in Lipowa Street.

A man named Schindler ran a factory.

And at the Eagle Pharmacy,

kindness.

It is still raining.

Put a stone on a grave.

Shalom.