It’s hard to wash your hands
when your wrists are shackled
to the man next to you who’s dying
and it’s getting harder to move
the numbers tattooed on your arm
are spreading like a catalogued virus
bar coded men, women and children
huddled together, marked by the stars
It’s hard to ignore the scent
when you’re dragging a dead man
hand cuffed and starting to stink
it’s becoming impossible to move
and you only find the strength
to carry out the work they order
when they put the machine gun
to the heads of your grandchildren
It’s hard to ignore the pain
when they’ve cut off your hand
to set you free of the rotten corpse
and it’s impossible not to scream
but still you have to go to work
and they’ll amputate infection later
wake up in the barnyard hospital
with fresh ink on your other arm.
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
