Shackles

Why doesn’t it stop?

The screams,

Like a rooster crowing in the morning

Routinely, incessantly

The blood on the floor:

Like paint splattered

On Picasso’s canvas.

And the little boy

With a tear streaked face,

Who’s thinner than a stick,

Is trembling in the corner

Of the concentration camp.

Frantic, desperate yelps,

Echo off the walls.

No one cries anymore;

For they know that the end is near.

It faces them in the shadows,

Where no light can reach them.

It faces them in their sleep:

Only 3 hours a night.

The bruises from their

Shackles don’t hurt

Anymore.

The pain they have suffered is far, far worse.

They were striped of

Their faith,

Their names,

Their families,

Their futures,

All gone.

All the while,

 The average Person

Sits there,

Head held high,

Legs crossed,

Tapping their foot,

Watching the news.

It’s the notorious

Hitler himself!

Whose face appears

Everywhere in several countries:

Conquered,

Wiped clean of innocent souls.

Whose voices have been silenced

Forever.

And the little boy

With the tear streaked face,

Whose father and mother and sister

He will never see again, sits in the corner.

And while trying to

Ignore the pang of the

Hunger in his stomach,

The aching bruises

And burns on his

Thin body,

The blood-curdling yells,

For help,

For mercy,

For peace,

Or maybe revenge,

He thinks of you,

And why you,

Didn’t stop it.