They built the chamber from tile and steel,
And whispered lies of cleansing showers,
Where innocence was made to kneel,
Devotion to the Reich’s dark powers.

The chamber’s walls were blizzard and snow,
In Stalin’s gulags, hope misled,
Where Marx’s dream died in woe
For orders scrawled, lives were shed.

The chamber became Tiananmen Square,
Where freedom’s anthem dared to run,
A storm of bullets split the air,
And dreams fell silent, every one.

The chamber’s roof was a mushroom cloud,
A physics riddle coldly solved,
Where the rising sun lay in its shroud,
As human flesh and life dissolved.

The chamber rose, twin towers of pride,
Where traders’ dreams and fortunes flew,
With burning jet fuel trapped inside,
While choking dust erased the view.

The chamber lay in Singur’s field,
Where progress came with gun and fire.
At Nandigram, the steadfast kneeled
To feed a corporate funeral pyre.

The chamber now is sand and stone,
Where drones sing out a deadly tune,
A crowded strip where bombs are thrown
Beneath an unforgiving Gazan moon.

Gas chambers may fall as bombs from the sky,
Or bullets, or edicts in boardrooms pristine,
Yet the chamber endures—where the helpless still die,
As we polish the brass on our killing machine.

We call ourselves enlightened, just, humane—
Yet chambers are born anew with each war.
So long as men draw profit from pain,
The promise of peace will linger at the door.

So pray, when next we speak of peace or war,
Recall how all our poisons taste the same;
For each new chamber, dressed in reasons, lore—
Is just another mask for murder’s name.