They are selling families
To the death squads
Seven and a half guilders
For each crime
Rotterdam has fallen
Now is not the time.
The ruins weep with dust
History wipes its face
Lined up against a wall
Bullets they rake.
Hunger takes its toll
They die within the street
Upon the Winter ground
Soldiers feet they pound.
Hunting for new victims
The bounty hunters strike
Men women children
Each have a price.
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Author:
nephilim56 (
Offline) - Published: June 28th, 2025 02:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments4
Dark, very dark as were the times if speaking of the second world war. There were other times as well each a dark age. If not literal but a metaphor equally dark. Well written with wording that sets the mood.
many thanks, I often think of genocide from the beginning of time up to modern day, the methods may vary but have always been with us
A read that strikes with chilling precision: its imagery raw, its rhythm relentless. It doesn’t flinch as it unveils a grim chapter of human cruelty, echoing the bleak cold of both the season and the soul. The lines don’t just recount horror; they inhabit it, making the reader feel every footstep, every price paid.
thanking you, much appreciated
Most welcome 🕊🙏🏻
This reminds me of the horror of the second world but i am sure it could apply throughout the history of man to the current day, a sad dark but very poignant write, nicely expressed
very kind, many thanks
You are very welcome
Why does this sound too real?
it is real , happened in world war 2
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