The Torturers Poem by A. P. Herbert
The Torturers
I went to Breendonk, where the Belgians died;
I saw the hanging and the shooting place;
I heard the tales of torment—and of pride:
I smelt the squalor of the Master Race.
I went to Aachen, and I walked with awe
To see how Germany begins to pay:
But all the crimes a single Breendonk saw
A thousand Aachens will not wipe away.
November 19, 1944
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
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5/10/2024 10:21:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
