I went to Breendonk, where the Belgians died;
I saw the hanging and the shooting place;
I heard the tales of torment—and of pride:
I smelt the squalor of the Master Race.

I went to Aachen, and I walked with awe
To see how Germany begins to pay:
But all the crimes a single Breendonk saw
A thousand Aachens will not wipe away.
November 19, 1944