WINNIE HINSON

The sun, ashamed, allows only faint coals of color to                                                                                                                                                        simmer and glow behind

ash-white clouds.

Snow, though deep and pure,

fails to cover the horror below—

huge, jumbled stones soaked with screams,

shadowless rooms, immense with death.

I hope the acrid smell is from

wood fires nearby.

Still commanding worldwide attention, the arch-tower

remembers macabre marches and

tides of trains passing through

(no exit).

Remembers shouts, cries, barks, and shots,

smoky stench everpresent, and  ascensions of

striped ghosts.

Deserted barracks and crumbling chimneys wonder–

will they outlast human memory?