Scattered

Drawing ever closer to the

Crematory, my hands

Shook and quaked,

My stomach tightened,

My eyes watered, and

My mind—raced

With images of babies

Engulfed in those

Infernal flames, of

Innocence gripped in

The hands of evil.

My mother, beside me,

Was reticent, for once.

Her face was shrunken

And pained,

Wrecked with

Grief,

Disbelief,

And

Remembrance.

Suddenly, there were

Only a few steps

Before I reached

The pit of doom.

Three more steps.

Two more.

Alas, one more...

I thought of

My little garden.

The passion fruit flowers

Thrived heartily

With everything

In place.

Now, my

Passion fruit flowers

Shriveled up,

My family torn apart,

And my customs

And beliefs all deprived

Of

My bygone days spent

Poring over

Music scores,

Playing on the

Piano,

The giggling and chatting at

Marketplaces with

My friends,

The stately

Family dinners,

And my dream

To become a professional

Pianist

Were all swept

Away.

Inside of me, it was

As if the "merry stream"

That ran

Through was frozen

Or parched, never

Moving again.

Slowly, I forced

My mind to shut

Out the noise of

Our trampling,

The noise of people

Dying, of the

Fiery pit, of

My beating

Heart

And just

Feel

Nothingness,

As if to embrace

Death

Once and for all.

All too soon,

I felt, smelled,

Heard, and

Tasted

Nothingness.