Dachau, Which Is So Even in June: A Reflection on Sorrow and the Arts

Now when it rains in Dachau, well that's how things ought to be
And I've seen rain in Dachau falling on the bourgeoisie
And their pretty progeny kicking puddles in the grit
Near plaques inscribed "Nie Wieder" (but I'm not believing it)

They built a crematorium of mortar, brick, and wood
The trees that stand beside it grow much greener than they should
They tend a tiny garden to remind that life goes on
Where vibrant flowers blossom in a verdant, well kept lawn

But if a painter came here he would paint it all in grays
Dutifully to represent how much his conscience weighs
And furthermore I speculate what kinds of notes one writes
When composing a concerto which tells of Dachau's nights

I find my inclinations leaning generally towards
Dirges penned in three two time, diminished fifths and minor chords
With snare drums backing cellos and a lone contrabassoon
To suit the tone of Dachau, which is so even in June.

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