The Stones Speak: Nazi Patrol

THE stones have each a face,
as I pace on guard.
Each dead stone seems to grin.
I stamp with my gun-butt hard
tamped down on brow and chin.
I tramp with a booted heel
sealing the street with a seal
of red, as I stride on guard.

Moon silver and dead black
is the empty street
endlessly stretching on.
Echoes clap from my feet.
Dawn, will it ever be dawn?
Doors and windows are fast.
Who lurked there, who fled past?
Silence —till eardrums crack.

We shoot, we burn to the ground.
We stand on guard.
We scourge and mock and revile.
We are metal, smooth and hard.
They fear us! And all the while
voiceful are buried bones,
hate wells up from the stones,
naught changes, naught atones,
as we stand and hark, on guard.