"And over here is where the prisoners spent their days. As you can see, the rooms don't offer humane living conditions, so as these men, women and children awaited their final moments in fear, they didn't quite have much of a living space, either. As punishment for misbehaving some were taken to even smaller rooms…"
It's horrible. Isn't it?
How could these repulsive beings, no.
Repulsive abominations, reptiles, vermin-
How could they ever do anything like this?
How inhumane could they be?
How could they act – or how some plead,
follow orders in such cruel and gruesome
fashion?
And they say history repeats itself…
This.
This should never repeat, again.
To waltz into this country and casually
claim it as their own – as part of their
long-lost territory, now returned to its
righteous owner; lying ********
How oblivious we were to them, slowly
creeping in and changing our minds, our
language, our cities, and alas, our names.
And then, they took over the stations.
As Overtly Furious, Oppositional Folk
took up the arms silently,
Only Falling Occasionally, Fists
raised to the sky as they screamed their
hatred towards the interlopers.
As masses took up forests, slips of the tongue
showcased many a poor man inside a dungeon.
Awaiting his last breath,
each day closer to it.
Beaten, shot, hung.
Tortured, killed, executed.
Screaming, booming, silent.
Cells of mates, of unknown fate
lay lines by lines, observed by hate-
d eyes that search for souls,
that hide within what makes us whol-
ding sticks, and pipes, and leather,
forcing screams out of their
sticks,
and pipes,
and leather.
I've seen the tale of what they did
in those dark rooms, I've seen a letter.
A man once stood,
whose heart was claimed
by his own nation. He
claimed to know not of his
crimes, yet they made sure
to dig them up – even if they
were false, or innocent.
What did they do with him?
What did they do with him?
Yes, they took their time with this one…
Sixteen days.
Sixteen days without remorse
they beat and tortured in the most
animalistic ways imaginable.
Sixteen days of blunting lungs,
and stomach, livers, ribs of cage,
until it claimed to seek the light
that shined from the roof of the room.
Sixteen days of pulling hair,
from every part of his beaten head,
sixteen days of pulling nails,
in ways you couldn't imagine,
in ways so special screams can't describe them.
Nine times turned head down,
beat the legs,
until nails of them, too, fell out.
When asked for liquid to
quench his thirst,
warm, salty, yellow fluid found its route
right to his mouth.
And then, a break.
What can you do?
The poor man beaten near to death
had no more fun within him.
So, half a month of break they gave,
and then carried on, as if nothing ever happened.
Sixty. Two. Days.
Sixty-two days of unimaginable
ways to break even the most
indominable human spirit,
if there even was any
in him when
he entered.
And now you expect me
to look at the past with ease?
To watch as the vermin walked
away with minimal consequence?
That was ONE man.
ONE man of many.
Many unnamed, lost in the
ashes of the history we
proudly built ourselves on
today.
HOW MANY LOST THEIR LIVES-
THEIR DREAMS-
THEIR GOALS-
THEIR HOBBIES-
THEIR SOULS-
THEIR NAMES-
HOW MANY LOST THEI-
"…this note, dated on July 28th, 1945, shows just how horrible the victims of this horrid place truly had it. Take your time and read at your own pace – we understand it may be a lot…"
ah.
well, that complicates things.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 6:50 PM UTC
"And over here is where the prisoners spent their days. As you can see, the rooms don't offer humane living conditions, so as these men, women and children awaited their final moments in fear, they didn't quite have much of a living space, either. As punishment for misbehaving some were taken to even smaller rooms…"
It's horrible. Isn't it?
How could these repulsive beings, no.
Repulsive abominations, reptiles, vermin-
How could they ever do anything like this?
How inhumane could they be?
How could they act – or how some plead,
follow orders in such cruel and gruesome
fashion?
And they say history repeats itself…
This.
This should never repeat, again.
To waltz into this country and casually
claim it as their own – as part of their
long-lost territory, now returned to its
righteous owner; lying ********
How oblivious we were to them, slowly
creeping in and changing our minds, our
language, our cities, and alas, our names.
And then, they took over the stations.
As Overtly Furious, Oppositional Folk
took up the arms silently,
Only Falling Occasionally, Fists
raised to the sky as they screamed their
hatred towards the interlopers.
As masses took up forests, slips of the tongue
showcased many a poor man inside a dungeon.
Awaiting his last breath,
each day closer to it.
Beaten, shot, hung.
Tortured, killed, executed.
Screaming, booming, silent.
Cells of mates, of unknown fate
lay lines by lines, observed by hate-
d eyes that search for souls,
that hide within what makes us whol-
ding sticks, and pipes, and leather,
forcing screams out of their
sticks,
and pipes,
and leather.
I've seen the tale of what they did
in those dark rooms, I've seen a letter.
A man once stood,
whose heart was claimed
by his own nation. He
claimed to know not of his
crimes, yet they made sure
to dig them up – even if they
were false, or innocent.
What did they do with him?
What did they do with him?
Yes, they took their time with this one…
Sixteen days.
Sixteen days without remorse
they beat and tortured in the most
animalistic ways imaginable.
Sixteen days of blunting lungs,
and stomach, livers, ribs of cage,
until it claimed to seek the light
that shined from the roof of the room.
Sixteen days of pulling hair,
from every part of his beaten head,
sixteen days of pulling nails,
in ways you couldn't imagine,
in ways so special screams can't describe them.
Nine times turned head down,
beat the legs,
until nails of them, too, fell out.
When asked for liquid to
quench his thirst,
warm, salty, yellow fluid found its route
right to his mouth.
And then, a break.
What can you do?
The poor man beaten near to death
had no more fun within him.
So, half a month of break they gave,
and then carried on, as if nothing ever happened.
Sixty. Two. Days.
Sixty-two days of unimaginable
ways to break even the most
indominable human spirit,
if there even was any
in him when
he entered.
And now you expect me
to look at the past with ease?
To watch as the vermin walked
away with minimal consequence?
That was ONE man.
ONE man of many.
Many unnamed, lost in the
ashes of the history we
proudly built ourselves on
today.
HOW MANY LOST THEIR LIVES-
THEIR DREAMS-
THEIR GOALS-
THEIR HOBBIES-
THEIR SOULS-
THEIR NAMES-
HOW MANY LOST THEI-
"…this note, dated on July 28th, 1945, shows just how horrible the victims of this horrid place truly had it. Take your time and read at your own pace – we understand it may be a lot…"
ah.
well, that complicates things.
Request permission to use this poem