Impossible

Heads shaved,

and patches of scalp

showing through.

And naked skin,

pink, young and supple,

and old leathery flesh.

And bodies

herded into dark rooms

and huddled in circles

on cold wet stone.

And the smell

of mildew and

urine and fear,

and something

indecipherable.

And outside, the sun,

turning young, green shoots

yellow

on the trees of Treblinka,

is quietly smothered by

bodies

falling like impossible petals

on the soul of man.

And you must

live your life

knowing this.

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