Their time was now,
And they were in hell already.
A train pulled up laden like cattle,
Thinking of home that I would not see again.
Red rivers ran from my forehead to my chin,
Bones too brittle, festering skin.
Was this semblance of order?
On cinder laden ground.
Some dropped and pleaded,
Others fell without sound.
Vistula River to dump cremated ashes,
Clouded the water with delicate splashes.
Ten stone to six stone,
In a matter of days.
From the burning rays.
Far off war was just a distorted figment of imagination,
I wept without shame.
(To all those who died in the Death Camps of World War Two)