Their broken limbs are stacked
The way firewood is piled
And lie covered with a pale snow-like powder.
These manikins with damaged eyes staring glassily
Fill a deserted warehouse
That a friend inherited from her grandfather.
And she and I just had to go exploring.
This surreal scene reminds me of old war newsreels
Headed, “Liberating Auschwitz.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem