his one hope

I read his words of survival.
the prison
camp. the shredded clothes,
the crumbs.
spoons of broth,
hardly enough to keep
one alive,
let alone working in the cold,
digging
graves
for those that have died.
he talks about
seeing the sunset
in a puddle of sewage,
of seeing a bird
beyond the gate, the barbed
wire.
he feels the bones
of his body, he smells flesh
burning, the grey
smoke of chimneys full
of the dead, now ashes.
he remembers his wife.
her hair, her eyes.
the softness of her skin.
her gentle smile. he can
go on with this.
this hope. this one hope.
love.