The sun, ashamed, allows only faint coals of color to simmer and glow behind
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
Remembers shouts, cries, barks, and shots,
smoky stench everpresent, and ascensions of
Deserted barracks and crumbling chimneys wonder–
will they outlast human memory?