A. E. Orchard1992
One upon the other, Some stripped as naked as possible, Others left with only pieces of their Refinement. Some identified and identifiable, Others, only guesswork could tell. Nationalities of all kinds Shared this silent moment, All had died by a multitude of hands, Many by the errors of others. The dead mass Silent in its fate, Lay in the great open wound of the earth That was to be its grave, Its choir the sound of wind carried voices. Occasionally, in the distance, Its own could be heard Entering as quietly as they left. The sound of these engines, Barely perceptible, Was just enough To bring me back to the reality Of the breaker's yard.
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