End of the Tracks


We have just come from the crematorium

Where the tortured, starved and spent humans

Were put simply in on a board

Here the tracks ended, lives, goods

Plundered a further circling into hell;

Nearby on the grass under the trees

The woman collects the chestnuts that shine

Like brown and precious natural jewels;

We hurry on anxious we don’t miss the bus

The express bus back to Prague.

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