Once, shtetls dotted Poland — now only echoes remain.

In 1522, a nobleman’s ink
welcomed ten Jewish families to Tykocin—
to build commerce, to build community.

A kahal* rose—
commerce, culture, a court, sanctuary and study.

Then— the silence fell.

The synagogue still stands—
not as a sanctuary,
but a museum.
Painted prayers on plaster walls
speak for the voices
that will never answer back.

The Jewish market
sells nothing to a Jewish neighborhood
that no longer exists.

And the forest— holds its memory
and its dead.

Women.
Children.
The old.
Loaded into lorries.
Men, marched on foot.
All taken—
to the woods.

Three pits.
Twelve meters long.
Four wide.
Five deep.
Dug to the decimal—
the Nazis were precise.

But how do you measure
a grave wide enough
to bury a community?

August 25, 1941.
6:00 a.m.
An order:
“Gather in the square.”
Rows of four.
Terror, trembling,
Forced to sing Hatikvah—
The Hope—
as they walked.

To hope, even then.
To hold fast
to faith,
to each other.

Two thousand Jews once lived in Tykocin.
Most now lie beneath its trees.

The forest remembers. And we must, too.

*formal Jewish community local government