Silenced

            “…the clatter of silence on silence."
                  from Still
                  by Wislawa Szymborska

Spoken in the hushed quiet
gasps of steam escaping
through the wire barbs
the cold cracks to the heel
of goose-step polished boots.

Voices hang in the names
words forgotten in whispers
in the standing warmth, the dark stench
the dying ride on frozen steel
bloodstained boxcars line the terminal.

Sobbing stained faces, tainted
white in tears, long lines
footpaths in the freezing slush
a plodding march through the gates
or the shorter walk to an iron fire.

Silence falls in light flurries
the cooling snowflakes of dead
gray folded cutouts – miniatures
man, woman, the children, so many
night the oily, fetid sky.

Echoes in the empty cars
the brute force of the whistle
the black, broiling engine smoke
clouds frozen, solitary shadows—
only the living fear the tacit snow.