WHAT ABOUT ME?
FIELDS OF ASHES
( Auschwitz )
These footsteps I take, so gentle, so reverent, as I walk on these fields—fields of ashes, that weep. Rain of tears echo the horror: the horror of this soil consuming ash, this dust. Voices of sorrow grip the souls of my shoes, lifting the ashes of souls embedded in this hallowed ground. Human remains turned to ash float about in this silence of weeping sorrow—so many, so many—in this terrifying holocaust. These fields of ashes draw inward, creating a disturbance to the comfort cushion of my soul.
I look about me, and try to envision this horror, so unimaginable in my mind. Each speck of ash, all this dust, lies still, seeking an answer—an answer for why, and why so many? In this hell, of unnamed tormented ash, cries remain of those entrapped in these fields of dust, that weep. It is the sorrow of the soul, that wails and whispers in the stillness—calling out.
I bend and fill my hands with this ash, to embrace, to respect, to give peace to a people of a climactic injustice. I look at myself, at my pleasurable life; I look at these ashes, of souls that were starved, raped, tormented, mutilated, cast into ovens to be burned away—to dust.
It is I, with a heavy heart, who cast a shadow on the worth of my life—that I’ve been fortunate to escape such a hellish place. For regardless what my troubles and sacrifices may be, I cannot begin to compare my level of discomfort, to these terrified victims of these fields of ashes.
It is here where angels still roam about, looking for remains, to fulfill a presence of peace. It is here, where man has forgotten, to remember, that evil—lavish and uncontrollable—laughed as it consumed innocent people to death—to ashes.
Amongst the flowers and grass, the ashes within the soil still reverberate, from the thoughts of what happened here. The storm continues to lurk in man’s heart for the murder, killing, injustice and hatred; but lessons of the past have failed to sensitize the future, and man’s sins of self, grow deeper. So much can be gained from love—but the evil power of darkness lavishes deception, with the false promises of grandeur, with no substance nor regard for anything. These fields of ashes, are the historical testimony of the millions of innocent people, annihilated: men, women, children, families—from the showers of terrifying gas to the ovens of fire, some thrown alive—burnt to ash, in this condemned place of hell.
And of the songs that people sing, what words, could ever tell the stories of this horror, or capture the feelings of the terrified victims in this desolation. There are, no such words; there are no such melodies, only sorrow: ashes of sorrow that boggle the mind with indescribable emotions. It is only what the eyes can see that examines the inventory captured within their view—view hidden, unseen, untold. Footsteps of death linger about: crescendos of terrifying screams—muffled, muted, but present. All that remains, is the remains of the innocent, that cling to my shoes, that cling to be remembered.
In these fields, the tears of my soul seek comfort for all who have been abandoned here; blessed be their ashes that well up in me—that somehow the Lord has compensated them for their suffering and anguish.
There is a time to work, a time to play, a time to laugh, a time to cry, a time to love, a time to die, a time to remember, and a time, that never should have been. Ashes. Dust. Sorrow. Fields of ashes, that weep. They will always be here. They will always weep.
Robert J. Varrick
Auschwitz
The above is,
what I feel in my heart—
I have never been to Auschwitz.
How can I write about these things?
It is part of the gift given to me—
to pour out
what the Spirit wants to say
for those that have no voice.
I am very humbled by the words
that I receive from above.
These things I can visualize
and feel in my heart and soul.
They are like pictures within me
and when I see these interior images
they become more—
than a silent voice.
I write with great depth and feeling
because I’ve been internally touched
by these hearts
who have reached out to mine.
I am connected in such a way
that I feel,
I am really there.
I walk with them
with their pain and suffering
and cry the tears
that need to be shed for them
in remembrance of when
the gates of desolation were opened
and their ashes were scattered
over the fields
in this horror of horrors.
Robert J. Varrick
rjvarrick@gmail.com