
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