The arschtonne is overflowing with feces,

But we must put to use what we have;

The stench of death surrounds me,

So I journey around the perimeter,

Attempting to distance myself from this prison.

My black-and-white striped jumpsuit hasn't been washed in days,

And layers of sweat stain the fabric.

Many come in from Auffenthaltslager,

Readily prepared to deal with life as they know it,

Or so they think.

The numbers "140603" are permanently etched in my forearm,

Identifying me as a number instead of myself.

"Achtung" is called.

Our wary hearts race.

Our weakened heads pound.

Our blistered hands shake.

The arschfickers are carrying the deceased through camp.

A soft hand dangles out of the wheel barrow,

Bearing the numbers "139463".

That is all my wife is now, a number.

This is all my life is at Dachau.