Yellow stars in a pit of faces, Staring transfixed from their tomb, At their possessions neatly stacked by ‘perfect mortals’ Suitcases aligned outside the shower room, Emblazoned in names or chalk epitaphs, That stands beside a leather mountain of heels. The drone of a single shaver, Removing the perfect hair, That will be used for textiles to seam more yellow stars, The sick irony of death bearing death, And the whooping cough of a typhoid stricken child, Walking with her mother mild, To the room of no return. In the shower room I sit half a century on, Thinking of the nameless gone, In this room I recall the Mothers, Who would try to help their babies breathe By making them suckle on desperate nipples, Both dying in the shape that they lived in the womb, Where screams turned to smoke that would bellow for hours, I break down in the shower room. I remain haunted by the corrugated corridors, The squeak and lingering echo of recycled boots on shiny floors, Where laughing Nazis would walk to block 11, To purify Jews by liquid suffocation, I see a name carved in to granite, Next to rows of seven stripes until the abrupt end, Continued on to a whole wall, These are horrors I can never comprehend, It leaves me sore, From my one single day in Sobibor.