At the Peace Park, Hiroshima
The tilted dome stands
as if it was a silent mirror
While balding grey feathered pigeons hide
among twisted agonized steel
Long naked metal fingers open
trying to grasp the still empty air
Emaciated shadows linger among
ruins of anonymous burial mounds
Murmurs of weeping fountains add background calm
for hours which lay dead in atomic remembrance
Forgotten ashen silences lead way to
miraculously clean lanes swept continuously
But before you, one street segregated by bitter hatreds
A single cement pole inscribed with Korean names
marks slave laborers' forbidden even in death
Proper respect to mingle in the teary Japanese sky.
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