POETRY

The Sweet Death

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Aidan Bart

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Part I The Bombing

It smelled sweet, sweeter than a cool spring morning, so sweet it smelled sour. 

The stench hung in the air, burning your nose, making your eyes water. 

Smoke the distinct smell of death and torture. A baby wailing, a mother sobbing,

a gunshot that made your stomach sink with grief and pity. But you put your head down and forget about it like you always do. The sky is lit up with fires even at the darkest hour, rubble and bodies as far as the eye can see. You hear the sirens in town wailing as planes over head zoom past. You hear the bombs falling but can't see them, all you can do is close your eyes and hope that you can live to see tomorrow. 

 

Part II The Graveyard

I am nothing, nothing at all, just a quick thought and a brief visit to the living. A hotel for the dead where young and old celebrate their lives. I welcome all, from soldiers to babies. All who die are welcome at the hotel for the deceased. When there are wars my business is booming, at other times it's steady. The Holocaust was when I was first born, who knows why, who cares why. But the only purpose I serve is to welcome the dead.