Garden 'The Garden of the Fugitives contains plaster casts of victims still in situ' - Wikipedia Mountain dripping red-black tongues Forge of Vulcan, chimney belching in the air, Hammer Wielder, hear my prayer, Douse the fire, descend your ladder's rungs, Drowse yourself in rest so deep That tired Vesuvius lulls herself to sleep. Huddled on the killing floor Like the Auschwitz dead Neatly strung in rows Families forevermore Linked in chain-link pose In such a gravelled bed. Mountain dripping red-black tongues Forge of Vulcan, cease your burning, Bronze-armed Blacksmith, stop your bellows churning Out the air that fills my lungs, Then you may lose yourself in rest so deep That tired Vesuvius lulls herself to sleep. A man from his sleep Rises to the final, fiery wind. The hot blasts kill - The ash layer keeps In place this spectacle, Decomposing bone and skin Til all that remains is hollow shell, Pompeii's last precious gift To a future that cannot help But share the private Hell Of those who could not step Away from death, capricious, swift.