Revisiting Auschwitz

It seems right to return in winter -
the red brick entrance crested with snow,
guard towers like black shrines
cut from soft cold white.

'The end of history' began here
in the failure of language,
in the silence
of the inexpressible.

The unmaking of creation
in petals of flame flowering from bone;
the response to God -
this is the fruition of your planting -
ravenous ovens stuffed to spitting
pits of flesh soup stirred
and fallen to ashes - ashen snow.

And what was the point?
What do we take from the experiment?

Only that it failed.
That life continued,
began afresh, though not so innocent,
never so trusting.
Life chooses - chose - life.

Vespers whisper endlessly
amongst the wreaths and fresh blooms
laid to rest against the firing squad wall.