The Memorial

By Khushi Purohit

In the heart of Berlin, where silence falls,

among some blocks, history calls,

a labyrinth of concrete, cold and gray,

where shrieks from the past can be heard till day.

The surface of each stelae, iced to the core,

it burns the skin, like their harrowing lore,

the wind here whistles, a haunting song,

along the barbed line of death that some had drawn. 

Gray clouds overhead, a mourning shroud,

raindrops fall, the sky cries aloud, 

each drop, a memory of a life undone,

murders that were committed under the same sun.

In the name of purity, disaster was wrought, 

millions slaughtered and senselessly fought, 

the air, thick with tales of despair, 

of loss and death, inhumanity laid bare.

Here, in Berlin, where the memorial stands,

a physical journey through repenting  lands,

a chilling, eerie, spine-tingling site,

reminding us of humanity's plight.

Those who enter, feel the ground betray,

with the horrors of history, in disarray,

beneath their feet, the unsettled floor,

echoes of a time, we cannot ignore.

Muffled voices, from the streets bleed through,

a ghastly whisper, a spectral crew,this place,

a testament to what was lost, 

the catastrophic cost of hatred’s frost. 

Berlin weeps through concrete and rain, 

a plea to remember and not in vain…

a horrific, heart-wrenching scene unfolds,

in Berlin, where the story of the holocaust is told.

By Khushi Purohit