Half a million walked in this gate
and vanished.
Half a million walked down this path
and were buried in mass graves.
Half a million were here
and this place is forgotten
because half a million died.
What right do I have
to walk in
and walk out?

Sunlight shines
through bare
trees, winter
air hanging
like the
last breath
you took.
How is
the world
still beautiful.

Metal pipes run
the length of the ceiling, where
rusted nozzles hang
downwards, morning glories of death.
What a relief
you must have felt when
only water fell
from those flowers, mimicking
tears of joy
on far too many cheeks.
What an irony
that an element that cuts off air
and drowns many
gave you the right and permission
to breathe freely.

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.