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Sonja Larson
dachau


smashed in a bus.

shoulder to shoulder,
body against body,
an ocean of heads bobbing
with each cumbersome bump.

hot breath on my neck.

the draconic machine screeched to a halt,
exhaled as its contents were released
onto the condemned piece of earth.

silence.

The foreboding air could be cut with a sword,
a dagger,
a lance,
but these were not the weapons they used.

branches of winter hung,
delicate skeletons,
whispering memories of souls.

grey.

the stoic hue
muted
the piercing, moaning red,
the deafening black.

the fragrance of rain,
of freshly placed stones,
of newly sewn grass,

blanketed the stench
of rot,
of festering disease;

of burning human flesh.

but amidst the unheard wails,
the uncountable bones,
the scar of humanity's unhealed wound:

hope.

the stories of the survivors,
the wet eyes of innocent children,
their tiny fingers picking up the pieces
of their shattered inherited world.

 

 

 

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