Promenade

The orchestra plays
as they marched towards their death.
Hearts barely beating,
only smidged of pride left.
Familes separated,
their souls already emancipated.
Chopin,
Bach,
Beethoven.
Brutal men in uniform
pick the tune played on the way to the ovens.
Fathers,
Mothers,
Daughters.
Harps strum, violins play
to their tragic, unjustly slaughter.