This is where fifty people were shot
Dropped in place like empty laundry
This is the place good people forgot
Those victims whose suffering paved into lots
Whose bodies wept their crimson tears
From broken eyes and lifeless ears
This is where they left their sundries
Pockets dragged on lawns so green
A sky of clouds left sun unseen
A day where elsewhere, children played
And life made sense, it seems so mean
The shades of the dead all haunt it now
The play-places of the living
A yellowing picture was all I saw
You couldn't even really see the faces
I smoothed it back into its old leather book
And promptly forgot where the place is.