Death of a Village

a poem by Dominic Campbell

Oblivious, the children, they skip and play
Not knowing of their judgment day
The baker is baking the daily bread
Not even thinking that he too will be dead
The doctor is whistling, he must do his rounds
Regardless of anything he is duty bound
The trams they are busy, going to and fro
Carrying its passengers to where they must go

But out of the village and high on a hill
An army of Satan watches at will
Drawing plans of what they must do
Checking their watches, the time is due
Slowly oh slowly their convoy moves in
Checking their timing before hell will begin
And as the sun climbs higher they enter the gate
Into the village, no time to be late

Watching in silence as the convoy moves in
Wondering why they have come within
The sleepy village where the children play
Who are these men that are dressed in gray
Ordinary men or so it seems
But from their souls the smell of death, it beams
Without words they point with their hands
And descending so quickly Satan lands

To the meadow, the men folk are taken
No one escapes, let there be no mistaking
Into the church the females they hide
Not knowing their fate, forever they will bide
Searching the village for the very last soul
Before they deal the meaning of their goal
And out in the field the shots ring out
Nobody survives, be sure there is no doubt

Burn down the church, demolished I say
The orders echo without delay
Destroy everything to the last piece
In my revenge I will not cease
Smoke and fire raze the small town
Buildings, they crumble, falling down
Nothing is sacred and left alone
Even the children, down a well they are thrown

And in a few hours the village is dead
Not even a place to rest their heads
Out in the fields the corpses still lay
Left as they were to rot and decay
The churchbell has stopped and never to ring
Dropped to the floor, melted, it will never sing
And in the village, the children play no more
But ghostly voices echo Oradour.


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