Seventy years have come and gone
Since British soldiers burst upon
Frail remnants of the human soul
Alive within a hellish hole.
At Bergen-Belsen, dreams had died,
Though some still walked with halting stride,
Their lives' hopes drowned in boundless grief,
When freedom seemed beyond belief.
The prisoners, most resigned to death,
Still clung to life with their last breath,
And rotting corpses, scattered there
Lay poisoning the springtime air.
Have men improved in all this time,
Erased the feral paradigm?
Is savagery his only fate?
Is life devoid of all but hate?
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