Suppe macht dich frei

The whistle blew, the line stood still,
Cold hands clutched bowls—too light, too frail.
A ladle scraped, a pot ran dry,
No second helpings—fuck you, that’s why.

The broth was clear, masquerading as food,
Cabbage wilted, bitter, crude.
No meat, no spice, no warmth, no taste—
Yet still, we swallowed. Kept our place.

"Once there was soup with carrot sticks,
With golden broth and flavor thick

once there was bread, so soft & sweet—
Imagine soup you’d chosen to eat."

The child just stared. His lips stayed tight.
"More?" he asked, in whispered fright.
A shadow flickered, quick and dim—
More was never meant for him.

It sat like stones, behind our teeth,
A shape not shaped, a breath not breathed.
A thing not asked, a thing not told—
An iron lock, an iron hold.

A foolish thought, a dangerous thing—
A name for hunger, a name for need.
It slithered up, it choked, it burned—
It curled, it withered, was learned.

The spoon is dull, the soup is thin.
We lift, we sip, we drink it in.
The warmth is ghostly, but it stays,
Enough to move, enough to wait.

We eat in silence, one by one.
We do not taste. We do not run.
A hollow flavor, a hollow place—
Yet still, we live.
Yet still, we wait.