in the future

The days pass. The pile of bodies steadily rise. In the

future, they will still arrive in groups. Wide-eyed and

fearful and pensive. But they will not be greeted with

the smell of charred flesh, nor will they harbor dread 

for the nights to come. What they will harbor is shock

and disgust, for as they slowly trod on the graveyard of

millions, it will hit them that this is how far man can go, 

this is the extent of man’s depravity. Systemic slaughter–

they will have learned about it by then, facts presented in

textbooks, but to walk on ground that held such suffering

awakens the extent of man’s empathy, and empathy saves 

as many lives as depravity kills. The days pass and the pile

of bodies steadily rise. In the future, they will never forget,

and they will label correctly—brave souls, innocent victims.

But right now the labels are inferior and dirty, and blood of 

brothers and sisters trickle onto the snow, and the sunken faces

with a feeble pulse are alive but not living. Although rapidly 

diminished, hope–the brother of empathy–dares to linger. One 

day, the sufferers pray, the gates of Hell will close. But they will

remain open. For visitors, not inhabitants. Visitors who will mourn, 

who will denounce, who will ward off the evil that consumes man. 

And there is only one way to do so—by remembering.