by R. Zahniser

There is a stench in this house,
the stench of rancid oil
and corruption.

It is almost certain to
sicken the next tenant.

The walls look shiny and white
but if you put your hands to them
you feel the vibrations
of screams.

The screams of prisoners.

This room
contains the souls
of victims.

It is a room so large
the entire world
cannot contain it.

The children alone,
ghost hand in ghost hand,
would encircle the globe.

But even this
pales in comparison
to the unadulterated evil
permeating this house.

If it were smoke
the winds of history
would blow it away,
but it
is thicker than smoke,
thicker than blood.

A new tenant will dwell here.
'Hail to the Chief' will play again.
But the shadow on this building,
the stain on these walls,
will endure as long as memory.

Copyright © 2008 - R. Zahniser
Published: 8/14/08   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem