A poem suits this heat well.
HITLER
Now let’s send him to sleep with history,
his authentic skeleton reeking of gasoline
and beside him the buffoonish followers:
let’s make them sleep among our precious trinkets.
The SS troops make us rethink the place
where it all began before we marginalized them,
in that now empty realm, we the people
with shadows disturbing our inner peace.
For a moment we manage to resist the black and silver cars
that slide through our brains in a slow parade.
We fill the microphones with the old chaotic flowers
of a bed that gradually tires itself.
It doesn’t matter. They turn out to be trinkets
beside the graves and libraries of the real world.
The vast design of the Führer and the curve of his chin
seem too familiar to those living in times of peace.