Their broken limbs are stacked
The way firewood is piled
And lie covered with a pale snow-like powder.
These manikins with damaged eyes staring glassily
Fill a deserted warehouse
That a friend inherited from her grandfather.
And she and I just had to go exploring.
This surreal scene reminds me of old war newsreels
Headed, “Liberating Auschwitz.”
I shudder and sneeze; dust floats in the air
As ash from the ovens must have risen
Out of crematorium chimneys
And fallen back to earth in big flakes,
Blanketing everything with the deaths of millions.
I escape my thoughts and the choking musty rooms
For fresh air and sunlight.
A dusty hand reaches for mercy
And catches my shawl's fringe.
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