Poetic Water- 02

   

     In the long path of human history, we have witnessed and learnt about the very humble beginnings, to the unique urge of humans to innovate, leading to progress and evolution. On the shining and proud pavement of the timeline, there lie some pits. Pits which show humans as the worse for the planet. In those pits, lie pests, who were once known to be lethal. Dirt, the filth of the bad time. And lies some water, water of records, articles, books, literature; Poetic Water...  

    This water reflects the stories of the time of these pits. Some pits, WW1 and 2, Jalianwallah Bagh Massacre, Spanish Flu, The Great Depression etc, have a great amount water in them. The literature describing these periods are infinite! In the swamp of the pit of HOLOCAUST, I would like to add another drop...

    My poem, The Black Smoke, shares true events and instances molded into a story. The story of an innocent, kind, young, energetic, ambitious, pebble in the swamp. The pebble was named Johann. There was nothing wrong about Johann. But alas, he died for the reason which wasn't even in his control, being a JEW. This poem displays a terrible turn of events which reveals the naked truth of the HOLOCAUST and its innocent victims. I apologize from the behalf of the whole humanity for the events which marked the making of a terrible, arbitrary, psycho, dictator/murderer. It is my respect to those 6 million souls, may they all rest in peace...

The Black Smoke

Once, on a moving train
There sat Johann,
An ambitious, smart,
Kind-hearted man.

The coaches were off
To somewhere promised work,
But pity! No one knew
At the end, what did lurk…

During the journey, he viewed
Fields and grasses green,
And at last, a black smoke
Rose above to be seen.

As the train slowed to destiny,
It screamed as if in fright.
The board at the station showed
A name that drowned the light.

There stood the helpless ones,
Betrayed by their nation,
Dragged through the gates of hell
as Auschwitz was their station.

Johann went cold as if
He were mentally lost,
Frozen in the shadow
Of the Holocaust.

His survival, he thought,
Was a vanishing hope.
But he endured, while others
Vanished in fire and smoke.

They laboured in foul stench,
They slept on frozen stone,
Yet Johann clung to freedom,
To dreams he called his own.

He tried to lead a strike,
Refused to eat their food.
He gave his soul, his body,
To serve a greater good.

He searched and found a way
To trace the railway track,
Ahead lay freedom—still,
The whips would strike his back.

As he dared to run,
A guard stood in his fate.
He and the others dragged Johann
To the furnace to immolate.

He was burned alive
And finally broke free,
To rise as blackened smoke
That another train did see