Hate at Auschwitz

Hello to that gate that's on that hill,
where they lined up holes for the lesser race to fill.

It likens in oily, creaking plight,
to the typhoid death cliques lead by night.

As rain confides in it every tale,
the dominance of slate and spike and nail
refused it the up most moral betrayal,
can you hear them now?

Hello, but now the rain has passed
As it's the gates that are seen the last,

can it feel the fear that creaks onto slate,
or the gas that burns but chains too late?

The rag-less shock of the lesser mind,
the skin that's brought to break and bind,
the silence now of the creaking gate,
that withholding menace
unlocked
too late.