Through the wrought iron gate,
Emblazoned with an ironic promise
Of freedom earned through labour.
A promise fulfilled only for the lucky few.
Within, dull, threatening concrete towers
Survey the inner pen, once filled
With innocent men and women,
Ready to be incarcerated for their ‘sin.’
It was here that such innocent people
Were persecuted for being different
For deviating from the ‘norm’,
For being ‘impure’ or ‘following the wrong path’
This place was party to a genocide unseen,
Out of the public eye, behind the scenes,
Reduced to mere numbers. Worked to death,
Slaughtered, even, one might say.
It’s tangible: this place is wrong.
Built upon foundations of evil,
Whose wheels, once turned by hatred,
Drove a nation into the dark.
This is a place that should never have been.
Though the fuel has dwindled and died,
The burn-marks it leaves
Will never, ever heal.
Terrible scars of the past,
A grim reminder of the evil
That man is capable of.
This was inspired by a trip to Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Said trip was really, really freaky. My muse responded by throwing this out.