Who could forget wicked gates of iron, hell bent to dash their hope.
Who can pretend that this place is not real, with burnt remains thrown down the slope?
Who could forget those, who each day since have walked into water of shower?
The fear intense there, as they recall the terror,
Must be with them each day and hour.
Though fifty years have come and gone since liberation’s run,
I think of what couldn’t be burnt away: the brightness of the sun.
So here in this, reminder’s day, the skylights speak so clear.
That looking up, they could not take the light that shined so near.
Let now the skies burst forth with shout – A Song of Freed refrain.
When shadows veil and force ignite – Oh God, Please Not Again!