Names in a Jar Irena Sendler
The world has always whispered lies,
Dressed up its sins in fair disguise.
The prize is seldom justly earned,
The selfless left to be unturned.
In Warsaw’s walls, a shadowed fight,
A sewer worker, cloaked in light.
A woman bent with quiet grace,
Defied the beast, defied its face.
A toolbox held a fragile weight,
A burlap sack their fleeting fate.
A dog, well-trained, would bark and cry,
So soldiers let her pass them by.
Two thousand souls, she pulled from death,
Smuggled beneath oppression’s breath.
Yet mercy’s hands met iron chains,
Her body broken, bound in pain.
And still she lived, and still she wrote,
A glass jar hid each child’s note.
A mother’s name, a father’s past—
A hope that time might bind them fast.
But war is cruel, and graves are deep,
The names she kept were hers to keep.
A peace prize placed in lesser hands,
While she lay quiet in the sands.
The world forgets, or twists the past,
Yet truth is carved in stone to last.
Beneath a tree, in buried glass,
A woman’s love still holds the past.
Let history mark her name in fire,
Let truth rise up when men conspire.
The wicked world still turns its head,
But memory will not play dead.
WoPoLi 
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