Silence,

None of us dare utter a word.

Silence,

No prayers have saved us.

Silence,

For those who walk among the sky.

Silence,

In remembrance.

Silence,

Our God is dead

A drop of water falls,

Off the tip of an icicle,

Stained gray from ashes.

With each drop, I flinch.

We flinch.

Every drop is a lash of the whip,

Catching us as we become numb.

Numb to the physical pain,

That is shoveled upon us

Like a dead weight,

Crushing our lungs.

Ring around the rosie.

Why are we here?

The words of our Lord

Echo in my head,

As our star, six pointed

And golden in the sunlight,

Is torn from my neck.

There is nothing to be said,

Seeing it crumble to dust

Under the saluting boots.

Will I live to see tomorrow?

Will they replace me?

How far is the walk to the furnace…?

Pocket full of posy.

“Empty your pockets”, they cry.

We hand it all over,

In the hopes it will save us.

Nothing can save us.

Ashes, ashes.

We will surely die here,

Seeing the nightmare of

A dear mother or sister

Walking into the flames,

Never looking back.

Seeing the smoke funnel

In not wisps, but clouds

From the stack.

The smell of flesh,

Burning. Burning

In pits where it can be

Covered.

“That night the soup

Tasted of corpses.”

We all fall down.

We must help each other.

How can I help my people,

Who would kill their own

Fathers….for a scrap of bread.

How can I help a grown man

Up from the dirt floors,

When my friends would

Trample us to escape

The lash of the whip?

Our God is dead,

And then the night came…