There are no birds around

There are walls of stone

Hewn by inmates.


There is no birdsong

There are no green fields

But split dust and stone


There are no colours of

Spring or the seasons

Only one colour is present

That of grey.


There’s no human aura

But the stillness of desolation

And the stench of violent



There’s no sweet air

But the cold wind of death

That curls your hair and

Creeps down your spine.


There’s sadness and tears

For the thousands

Whose life were sucked-out

Of their emaciated bodies.


But there’s joy in the present

Spirit of survivors

The righteous people

And the emerging youth

Celebrating life

Defying the master-thugs

Of the Schoah:







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