the gate is a throat
an ironic warning
it swallowed the living
and spat out their mourning
it left behind the leather shells—
the shoes that walked their final mile
a mountain made of hollow things
the ghost of every stolen smile
the evil geometry of parallel lines
the tracks like teeth in the frozen ground
sleepers didn’t lead to dreams
they simply fed the fiery mound
the birds can sense implosion here
the grass still holds the morning dew
the world bore witness but looked away
the sky saw all, but remained blue.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 5:49 PM UTC
the gate is a throat
an ironic warning
it swallowed the living
and spat out their mourning
it left behind the leather shells—
the shoes that walked their final mile
a mountain made of hollow things
the ghost of every stolen smile
the evil geometry of parallel lines
the tracks like teeth in the frozen ground
sleepers didn’t lead to dreams
they simply fed the fiery mound
the birds can sense implosion here
the grass still holds the morning dew
the world bore witness but looked away
the sky saw all, but remained blue.
A poem inspired by my visit to Auschwitz Birkenau
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