Watch down the meadows here, of half a sight of slaughter, and stick down these rows furled lazy with the grass of fair days and stilted with colours of May. And see no horns, rooted like the children's graves, all turned a pallid colour. And bathe now in the sun of stilted memories gone to wind.
For no heads turn as sirens on the clock here, filled with madness of spinning rocks on the hour. Nor any men dressed as men without eyes, should we skinned heads have to suckle death from their guns. No: now these Trees had hanged the other way, turning from sights of sorted mass into waking graves, and to wash in perfumes hazy as the night sky, and rotten as anaemic lungs.
But watch down the meadows now, through fields of huts and silenceβ for the pasture of death looks nothing like violence. Where, upon a ravaged place, a Lark lands as an infant would, and tenderly drifts, faint into innocent shawls, damp with poison mud. But for what cause do these blind bullet heads sink lower than flesh, and when the Sun next rises, all shall be put to rest.
After visiting the Auschwitz Birkenau camp, and hearing a Polish survivor... how the days of death seemed to have faded on a summers day. It seemed a shell of the horrors that had been. Only a dark imagination could fulfil the past.