(After the concentration camp.
The last line is not original,
but taken from the journal of a prisoner.)
cold, damp, disconcert day.
feet crunch pebble pathways
like marching men.
bitter, barbed, encroaching wire.
spindled fingers all conspire!
oh, grasping gaze.
panik. lined like cattle called,
up and down and up and down and
oh the sound of artillery drowns
the melancholy music, brown:
'work will set you free.'
'oh God, is this what hell is like? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem