Where does the Road from the Camp go?

A response to Vincet O'Sullivan's Road from the Camp (From Us, Then)

“A row of prisoners stitched with yellow stars”

Was perhaps my father among them?

Not on a summer road, the season, the date don't fit.

It might have been late autumn, trudging towards Austria.

Not the Austria of gemütlich operettas and Sacher cakes

But Austria of the camp with the stairs of death.

No bears there, the bears like all animals for entertainment

had been devoured long before.

“Those casual days a hundred years back”

Never came back, a lost world, a dream, perhaps a nightmare.

“The story of the final show” can't be told

It was felt through the pores, the cold-numbed fingers,

The stomachs that knew no food, frozen bodies

And the autumn greyness that enveloped all.

Had there been bears they would have withdrawn their paws

They would have had more pity for these men

Then the hollow human beings who looked on.