Buchenwald

There is a beech wood, silent now

The birds don’t sing, they don’t know how.

The dead are gone, we can but follow

To the rim of that quiet hollow

Underneath the gate a flame

Incinerates a nation’s shame

Above the gate ‘To each his own’

Immortalised in skin and bone

There is a road between the trees

People died here, on their knees

They lived by numbers, whips and shouts;

They wore a star, which then burned out

I cannot cry, I have no tears

To wash away the empty years

There is a stain upon my soul

A rip, a tear, a gaping hole

There are no words, there is no song

I cannot speak, I’m not that strong

I know no names, no history

But this was you, and this was me.

DT 11/01/2018