Let's take a trip,

no a dip into

the past where

the sun showed,

where the dew on the 

leaves of the grape vines



Before echoes of the


pinged and clanged,

sounding the alarm as they entered the 



It was the city of conviction

where creation became

damnation that fermented

more than Auschwitz.


Where the Wehrmacht

took shots

passing the kids through

Bereich where

the light showed only through

the top of that crystal clear container that

held ways in, but only one way out.


The way wasn't designed

to be condensation, no it was evaporation,


It was suffocation.


Stop breathing,

hold your breath tilting

your head back as troubles are


and forgotten.



You forget that your wein

isn't made from what we know

of fruits.


No, it is rather the suits of hearts

that were gambled away

as the glass was tipped,

when the wein was sipped

through Bereich--

through Bereich it wasn't a wine

worth sipped.


The kids trapped in the container

were now spilled.

The hagafan stains on the door


as the drunk man

fell to the floor.


The hagafan stained carpet.

The hagafan stained floor.

They knew their wine

saved them no more,


As they

were taken

by what they had


and poured.


Now, let's press pause;

the cause wasn't the wine.


The wine,

The hagafan,

The wein.


The Wehrmacht drank the wine


Bereich supplied the wine,

but then at the time,

we didn't know they 

were the kind 

to leave their

hagafan stains

on the floor.


We ask if it was a drink worth drinking.

But no, it was just a drink they

died for. 

Guide that inspired this poem: 
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