Pain That Will Never Be Forgotten By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

Pain that will never be forgotten by Ink Soul

They came with ink, not sword at first,
To brand the race they deemed the worst.
The laws were passed, the stars assigned,
To mark the blood, enslave the mind.

They fenced the Jews in ghettoed walls,
With rationed bread and curfew calls.
Then marched them west in freighted pain,
Where barbed wire sang the devil's name.

At Auschwitz, Birkenau, and Majdanek's flame,
The punishment bore no fixed name.
It lived in tools and death's disguise—
In stinging smoke and muffled cries.

Stripped and shaved, their names erased,
They stood in rows, the chosen replaced.
Tattoos burned numbers on their arms,
Replacing songs with Nazi psalms.

In sealed gas chambers, tight as tomb,
They filled the air with Zyklon B fume.
No oxygen, no time to plea,
Just choking breath in silent spree.

Fake showerheads lined tiled doom,
Where mothers sang their last in gloom.
And when the knock no longer stirred,
They scraped the walls for final word.

In roll calls long in snow and sleet,
They stood for hours on frostbit feet.
Leather whips, with barbed-end claws,
Tore open backs for minor flaws.

One dropped a spoon—twenty lashes burned,
The SS boots with fury turned.
Steel rods, rubber clubs, and rifle stocks,
Would silence cries with brutal knocks.

One slice of bread, a bowl of broth,
To last three days through winter's wrath.
Typhus, dysentery, and lice were bred
Where toilets overflowed with dead.

They worked with bones where flesh had fled,
Then slumped like ghosts among the dead.
The starvation bunkers, dark and dry,
Watched living corpses crawl and die.

In Dachau, men were frozen stiff,
For "aviation science, " bodies sniffed.
They dunked them nude in ice-cold tanks,
Then measured pain in doctor's ranks.

Dr. Rascher, dressed in white,
Studied how long it took for night.
And when the shivers stilled their breath,
He logged the data of their death.

In Ravensbrück, the girls were flayed,
Their bones cut through with surgeon's blade.
Without anesthesia, muscle torn,
To test the wounds the soldiers mourn.

In Auschwitz, Mengele watched the twins—
Injected eyes with dye for sins.
He sewed their backs and swapped their blood,
Then left them twitching in the mud.

They removed uteruses, stitched them wrong,
To end the womb before it songed.
Limbs were amputated, sewn back crude,
Then amputated again for feud.

A child stole bread—he hanged at dawn,
His body limp, his shadow gone.
They forced the others, lined and still,
To watch his swing against his will.

In Ponary, Babyn Yar, in mass pits deep,
They shot the kneeling down like sheep.
Machine guns, pistols, rifles cold,
Turned prayers to echoes, young and old.

They hauled the stones and mined the salt,
And if they stopped, they paid with halt.
The death marches, boots in snow,
Would kill the weak with single blow.

Their backs would break beneath the weight,
Of bricks, of coal, of Nazi hate.
The wheelbarrow punishment—a game,
Where endless loops ensured their shame.

They trained the German Shepherds well,
To rip the flesh and bark in hell.
A girl too slow? The dogs were fed,
While officers laughed near the dead.

They tied the men with cords so tight,
Then whipped their soles with all their might.
Or hung them by one arm till torn,
A method known as strappado's scorn.

They made them dance in naked chain,
To Nazi songs in snow and rain.
They cut their beards and spit on law,
Then wrote on backs with human flaw.

They forced the sons to slap their kin,
Or watch as babies burned within.
The crying priest, the weeping bride,
Were mocked till all their faith had died.

They burned the Torah, broke the ark,
And turned the temple into dark.
Scrolls were ripped, the stars defiled,
The holy tongue became reviled.

They banned the rites, the candle's flame,
Then blamed the dead for Nazi shame.
Yet still they whispered Shema's line,
Through broken teeth and blood like wine.

Six million perished, void of name,
Their ashes rose from chimney flame.
Their shoes remain in glassed display,
As silent witnesses of decay.

So write it down, O world grown blind—
The tools, the whips, the twisted mind.
For if we fail to speak what's true,
Then death may wear clean boots anew.