Every day

horror comes back

A huge billboard I live close to says


It advertises Auschwitz

Children stand in line to see it,

Schoolbags are opened,

Laughter of children,


For more than three months

it has been drilling my head.

I go and buy bread,


I go and take the bus,


I didn’t want to visit it.

By mistake when I tried to go to the exhibition next to it

I ran into a crematorium furnace

Silence. Nausea

These are useless babbles

Why should the innocent grieve?

The teacher thinks it’s a great lesson in History.

But those children wouldn’t have let it happen.

None of them cries.

And I also feel undeserving of tears

that don’t belong to me.

It’s a greater torture not being able to scream,

maybe inside

of this exclusive school uniform

somebody may understand that

none of this is comprehensible.

Plaza Castilla is already used to going for a walk

With your stink of guilt pointing at everybody

With your deadly breath.


Until 7 October.

They advertise it like a party.

I conjure a next exhibition that

is actually an occasion for empathy

Because just watching destruction

Feels so empty

If there can’t be a hug

Of reconstruction.

There isn’t.

So what are we left with

But becoming unfathomable

In front of some sort of movies

Do you like war films?

Do you want to get out to dinner?

We have a view to the billboard

like those in theme Parks

And it says Auschwitz.

Do you want to cry?

Can you understand that we were this too?

That nothing could be done

That nobody did anything.

Emptiness cradles your babies

in front of your screens.

Would you like it if somebody bought a ticket

to see the remains of your murder?

Are these earnings and this sleeplessness

given to the children of those who survived?

Who arranged the shoes in a still life

What cultural manager thought it’d be a good idea

Who felt their fingers dissolve

Who said they couldn’t take it any longer

I want to preserve their heart under key.

There’s a cleaning lady

in indescribable blue

almost like the sky

who daily mops this eyesore’s halls

Can she cry while doing it?

This museum of horror.

A stand sells hot dogs, grilled corn, churros,

just outside.

Ducks in the pond right behind.

As if out of those rooms

there was life

making up the shame

and inside

the minotaur shut in

the attic monster-child inside of

the bag of eyes

to scare

chewing the little princess’ sweet tiny feet.

I can’t be peaceful

I can’t be happy because Auschwitz:

«It was alright, you should see it»

«I’ve written about it for my magazine»

i’ve talked about gathering the pieces

so I could see

what I still don’t feel.

With all my respect to the victims

With all my love and desire for justice

All my hatred and vomit in the executioners

I don’t want that billboard among businessmen,

pilgrimage of those who dream

with the highest towers

like angels of death.

Nobody brought a flower to this grave.

This cemetery you’ve placed here

more than 1,200 miles away

is at the right distance to do so.

I’m poor enough

to know that a name is a painful homeland

and this isn’t mine

and if it was

I wouldn’t want

a discount

the slightest trace of guilt

a corpse groped by everyone

a newborn necrophilia

growing up.

Could you light a candle?

Could you come cry for us

with us?

If you’re strong enough

If you’re still able to dance

like grass growing through the pavement.

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