I hear them in the wind, the gone, the burned, the lost.
Whose vardo dreams turned to dust, eaten by history’s darkest schemes.
My blood remembers what books forgot, how the sky grew black, the earth grew hot.
Steel and fear to Auschwitz, where death drew ever near.
They made a place they called a camp, a lie behind the wired ramp.
Fiddles sang where voices failed,
hands held tight as hope decayed.
Chavvis cried and mothers prayed, while fear spread like a gathering shade. Yet still they hummed their Romani gil, until the night the world stood still.
The second of August we mark that date, when trucks came rolling, sealing fate.
No warnings given, prayers unheard, silence, ash, and memory blurred.
And still they ask “Were you really there?”
A generation vanished in thin air.
But our chib still lives, our wheels still roll, and justice burns in every soul.
O Europe, hush your shameful song, their ghosts have wandered the drom too long.
Hear it loud, hear it clear, never again. Let truth appear.
I, a Romani born beside the tide, feel the pain my kin can’t hide.
At waters edge I light a flame,
and whisper each forgotten name.
So, gather your stories, your candles, your cries, for the Holocaust winds still haunt the skies.
Dik he nai bister,the past holds us yet.
Look through the silence, and never forget!