They played football at Auschwitz on Sundays,
While the guards and Alsatians looked on.
As the cattle trucks came
With humanity’s shame,
And the sun in its majesty shone.

With the shadow of death at their shoulder,
With the angel of hate at their side,
They practised their flicks
And did bicycle kicks,
And despaired when a shot whistled wide.

They argued the toss over throw-ins,
They moaned when a colleague mis-passed.
They frantically hacked
When their goal was attacked,
As the hordes shuffled off to be gassed.

Incongruous though it appears,
‘ Twas born of a deep-rooted need.
What mattered the most
Was to be so engrossed
That the darkness began to recede.

They played football at Auschwitz on Sundays,
And joyfully panted each breath.
For a few sacred hours,
‘ Neath the menacing towers,
They skipped o’er the stretched leg of death.

© Peter Goulding 18th January 2004

Inspired by "The People Who Walked On" by Tadeusz Borowski, an Auschwitz survivor.