The WWII poem. By Reuben.

I want to paint – the smell of burning smoke filling my lungs, the taste of sweat on my hungry, exhausted body and the rain patting on my head like a large, kettle drum.


I want to paint – dirty faced people in striped uniform, getting punished by the deadly gas chamber, the vast, barbed wire fence ominously surrounding needy, innocent Jews, the shouting of soldiers as more and more Jews dreadfully tortured with clubs and bats.


I want to paint – the old, wooden cabins, which hundreds of Jews were crammed into, the taste of gas as I fell to the floor.


I want to paint – The end of this war.

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