The walls are stark and grey, the desolately
forlorn raw cement walls of the memorial
dedicated to mass butchery. There is an angry
yet plaintive murmur that resonates within
those walls, peaked and sharp, the pointed
edges a nominal Star of David. The sound is
there, a ghost that pleads and begs to be
reunited with its mother in a separation that
took the child directly to the gas chamber
its mother to join a slave labour work detail.
The Brutalist walls of despair reek with the
agony of the dead in their millions. Yet they
draw not only the populace that silently stares
and shudders, but the lesser community of art
and commerce that see the quasi compound as
the perfect backdrop to the sensual appeal of
fashion design, posing fetching half-clad
models in alluring display among the faint
murmuration of annihilated victims of hate.
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