The kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.
Ancient chefs,
puffed hats askew,
storm once more
the catwalks swaying.
When the ovens are full,
the chefs dig pits
in the kitchen floor, set
silver spits, roast fryer thin
the legs and wings they've
cleaned and cleavered. Yes,
the kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem