Lying in my bunk,
the chattering teeth
sound like hail stones
bouncing off a tin roof.
But it's not hailing here.
No, not here in Hell.
Here in Hell it's putting down
a hefty December snow.
Since when does it snow
in Hell?
It's summer in Hell.
That must be when it snows
in Hell.

Outside,
warm tangerine glow
and circling spotlights,
like blood-driven sharks,
illuminate the dead sky.
Two chimneys tower
over the grounds like
erupting brick volcanoes.

I open the window
to capture a snowflake.
One wobbles lethargically
into my palm and crumbles
into white ash...

Arbeit Macht Frei...
Free as a snowflake
in the summer breeze.