I listen to the children
Speak of ancient history,
Of things they cannot comprehend
And all my "old folk" stories.

"The first man on the moon and
The horrors of World War II,
Black and white television --
And all without computers too!"

I hear the grandkids talking
About "If Hitler had won."
Would they be saying those things
If they'd lived with what we've done?

Can these kids not understand
That unless we'd done those deeds,
They wouldn't be here to talk
And rant about out misdeeds?

And I see them getting angry
If we call them "Krauts" or we
Insult those we once called foe!
Is it our fault they don't see?

They think our past is but a tale,
(Am I now a mere memory?)
Truths I knew they now call lies --
My life to them is fantasy.

They claim that we should forgive
And break down the Berlin Wall,
But forgiveness is easy
For those who never saw it all.

Forgive, I may, but forget?
How can we not remember
The slayers, the slain, the damned:
Our men and theirs, forever . . .

Are we different from the dead?
We are now called history;
When I hear the children speak
I feel that I'm a story.

I am suddenly stricken
By an obscure sense of dread,
As if I wasn't in time
And numbered among the dead.

- Josh MacLeod (1999)