Flowers grow over graves,

Winds whisper over the place

Where thousands were murdered by tens,

Where men tortured, abused, destroyed men

/

Empty rooms, empty yards, empty stairs

Will remember as long as they stand

The names of those, who half-slept and half-died

In iron beds on Rouge’s hot, scream-filled nights

/

Now it’s quiet here under the sun;

The locks from the doors and the windows are gone;

Blood’s been washed off the walls and the floors,

But the watchful eyes of the still-suffering ghosts

/

Of Toul Sleng follow into the future the steps

Of the guests who have come to converse with the dead