He remembers their last embrace, the final touch ... with nothing more to say, nothing more to say.
No need for words for in this dark all words have long since lost their meaning.
He was so good with words ... once. The crowd loved him ... once. No more. No more.
Still, her first words whisper in his ear. He tries to read between their lines.
But what he sees in the dark, feels in his heart blurs in ghosts of yesteryear.
All his dreams. All his lies. He can no longer tell them apart.
He watches his final hour bleeding while the bunker clock ticks away his life.
He studies its hands. He sees them turn, each click a tsk of reproach.
Oh, for a breath of spring once more. But no breeze in this cement haven.
Only silence. When she took the pills not a single word was spoken.
Now that she is dead, the silence seems a scream of accusation.
The doctor spoke truly. The pills acted quickly, so quickly.
He ignores his own pills like lice upon the scalp of the table, the gun beside them a grim sentinel.
He reaches out to gently stroke her still warm cheek. He frowns at his trembling fingers.
When had he become so frail, so old?
His fingers turn to the pills. The shadows look on. He hears their mocking whispers:
"Should we cry for your sake? Should you sleep in our arms?"
He hates those shadows, for the shadows see all, and they never forget.
"We never forget!" they mock. "Every dream that you had, every act you should regret."
He puts the pills in his mouth, swallows the stale, tepid water. He chokes, spitting them out.
He picks up the gun. He feels the cold pressure of its barrel against his temple.
What will his people, the world think when they speak his name? Or will they speak it at all?
In the years to come will any remember the name ... Hitler.