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Today the youth in him was destroyed
Captured, tortured, in an evil ploy
He gazed wide-eyed at organised chaos

The stench of bodies at a loss
Of dignity, of life
Buried hopefully amongst shot up wife
The only certainty and eternity
amongst flowers.
No matter your efforts in the last hours.
The grass here is watered by blood

Years later he holds it and attempts at love.
Hands are shaking
Knees are bent
Eyes are swollen
Days are spent
Poppy in pocket, picture in locket.
He's an old man now, knows
he won't be going home
Knows these are the last moments
before the rain comes again.
He lost nearly everything and now with a start
Gives away that final part.
Finally he flees bruised and broken memories.
His final vision bleeding grass
Sinking down the the bottom of the class
At last.

I wrote this about a boy I saw, crying, but I see thousands of people like that, and it evolved into something about the jewish concentration camps, but is about now as well, everything that is going on is so similar. Don't be mislead by the title, ignore it if you wish. It's what it means to you that's important.