Something about this air makes me poignant Or perhaps too familiar to be endured… Those decades-old hollow eyes still stare at me Elapsed past that smell of stingy rags, Blood stains and cold logs of human bodies Reflecting chilling horrors of the holocaust. Something about this air smells like my home I may be a gypsy, Jew, gay or communist I hear marching steps pounding, looming Mounting tension, loud weak heart throbs Ghastly commands in the greyish-blue vicinity And black clouds ready to bomb. Something about this air creates the autumn of 1943 Leaves fall yellow, brown, dreary and dry The cries of the camp prisoners go silent My parched pink lips unable to pray Wonder where the God fled, allowing To wipe a nation’s history, hearts and hope. Something about this air near the ashen memorial Cries out loud the unheard stories of the souls of sorrow Of my wounded homeland and shattered dreams. As I let myself blend with the background The church bells ring in melancholic unison Orchestrating the slides of a miserable memoir.
Setting: An autumn of 1943, during holocaust in Germany.