In silent woods where birds don’t sing
amid the debris of the war,
collapsing huts stand echoing
the pointless screams from long before.
With doorless mouths and glassless eyes
and fresh green vines to soften them
their broken backs still hide the lies
of all the crimes that should condemn
the evil that was once this place
which disappears without a trace.
But look a little harder, note
those fragments of its former day
the scars and stains beneath a coat
of dirt where beams of light now play
to bathe the ghosts as they appear
upon this stage of abject fear
Discarded clothes, a mask, a shoe
a rotten scarf behind a door,
in silent woods where birds once flew
amid the debris of the war.