Arbeit Macht Frei

By Simran Bance.

The train arrived late, carrying ghosts,

I saw Death lingering around them,

he watched them arrive, their faces deprived,

and he breathed the words, Arbeit Macht Frei.

He was busier Death, in the winter nights,

countless corpses to carry away,

just skin and bones in the pit of fire,

burning the stars, Arbeit Macht Frei.

He spread as fast as disease itself,

trapped in four walls of wires with us,

but I pushed my limbs and wished to the skies,

repeating with hope, Arbeit Macht Frei.

Death observed me, chained to the present,

cold blood staining the purest snow,

he reached out his hand, looked into my eyes,

but I carried on tireless, Arbeit Macht Frei.

Beyond, liberty silently waits,

as I gaze upon the blackening gates,

are they the words of God, or Satan’s lies?

The letters that read, Arbeit Macht Frei.

So Death visited me alone that night,

we talked and laughed till the moon was bright,

Arbeit Macht Frei, made sense to me,

As Death held me close, death set me free.