Razor wire gleamed. Frost gnawed through wooden slats.
Men shuffled, number-stamped, as thin as rats.
A world of smoke rising, brick stacked upon bone—
And yet, a man might hum a song, alone.

The world shrank to a bowl, a breath, a fear.
Each dawn a question: who would disappear?
Yet someone offered bread without a word—
I ate. I wept. The world around me blurred.

They took our names, our clothes, our hair, our pride.
But deep inside, one thing had not yet died.
Not hope—it starved. Not faith—it slipped away.
Just this: I will not vanish. Not today.

A guard once spat and struck me to the ground.
I lay there, silent. Made no curse, no sound.
Between his fist and what I might have done—
A gap. A breath. I chose what I’d become.

One man grew still. He did not curse or weep.
He watched the dying, did not pray for sleep.
He said: I am the witness. I will remain.
Someone must learn to hold another’s pain.

Each morning I would set myself a task:
To breathe. To stand. To make my face a mask.
Not hope—just work. A purpose bare and small.
It was enough. Some days, it was my all.

One frozen march, I conjured up her face.
She walked beside me, step for step, in grace.
I knew that she was gone—or might be gone—
And still I felt her hand. We both walked on.

Years later, free, I still can feel the cold,
The wires, the smoke, the stories never told.
What kept me whole? Not faith, nor God, nor crown.
I only know: I would not lie down.