There Once Was a Man

A brief view of Adolf Hitler’s life, from his origins as a German child to becoming the face of intolerance and hate across the world, vilified by the masses for his crimes. Serving in World War I and later instigating the Second, his is the most recognisable face on Earth from the famous moustache to the glaring lips and the lies that sprouted from them. This is a slightly poetic version of true happenings, which is important while reading to consider that these things really did happen. The slaughtering of the Jews in the Holocaust; the decision to start the Second World War; his time as a young child and the experiences that would shape who he would later become. I do realise that this is quite a sensitive subject, so I advise you take what’s written with a pinch of salt and if there’s anything that I’ve gotten wrong (which is very likely to happen) then please tell me. As always, any constructive criticism or feedback would be much appreciated.


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There once was a babe, swaddled in the affection of his parents, a child who brought happiness when there was despair. A shadow lifted from a family was he, a song that rang through the silence like a prayer from God. They loved him like no other and he them- but a death was his downfall. There were fights and a bonny child grew to be the shadow he had lifted only a few years before. He had but one love from early on: his country, and there was little that could change that. Perverted music played in his ears and the words that sprouted from his lips were little more than rants against all that which he did not know. All that which he did not became what he hated. And all that which he hated became what he would spend the rest of his life trying to destroy. There was no bonny child.

   There once was a young man whose blood boiled; a young man who yielded no more love than he did pain. He cherished the hail of bullets and craved more at whatever cost. The medals for bravery that glinted in the sun were fool’s gold in a fool’s calloused hand, little compensation for the casualties caused. But it wasn’t the casualties he was worried about, or rather it was for the bringing of more than his fair share in days yet to come, days that circled the horizon as birds upon ominous clouds.

Germany, oh Germany! Defeated in battle, though determined to rise again, on his shoulder it would lean to greet these birds and these ominous clouds lest his impatience wear on. Deutschland, Deutschland! The November criminals would fade like autumn, rubbed into dust as the smattering of leaves, the knife in his back thrust through their bleeding hearts.

   There once was a man, who leaned on the shoulder of his country, as his country would soon lean on his. The bricks and mortar placed as a wall built, torn the old and in its place risen a new, better alternative. Bullets still rang in his ears, as did the whimpers of the fallen, the cuts and scrapes and gaping holes that screamed through the black night. A ladder strung, strewn on the community, climbed ever higher until reaching where he wanted to be. Where he wanted to be was where he was. And as they all cowered under the veil of the black night, there stood an odd little man who wanted the world to bow and would force it to its knees before forgiving the tight grip he had on it. The bonny child sent from God acting as him, his blood still boiling and the birds still circling only ever slightly closer. Black legs of his sign kicking in anger, in fury at the black night.

   There once was a man who remembered the blood spilled and wanted to drop more as the bombs from the clouds above. By the bristles of his odd little moustache, this odd little man cast aside the veil and cried war, war! on the world he so loathed. Soon they all ceased to cower, and rose, and raised the palms of their hands to the man who so stood, and he too did it in return. His head filled with fantasies of young people, bonny and bright, blue eyes and flaxen hair with palms raised and the thorns in his side thrown to oblivion and beyond. There once was a man, who piled high the Jewish bodies to reach the sun, only for the sun to melt the wax from his face, shielded by nothing but the cry of his hatred. And the showers, mere showers, into which they all flocked, the showers that would cleanse the earth of the vile few whom he so vilified.  Preaching the God he once knew as the bombs fell from the clouds above, and the birds with their maggoty flesh and milky eyes too dropped to the ground, a song falling on deaf ears from mute voices.

   There once was a cowardly man, who fed himself the bullet and fed the world the peace he too shoved down his throat. For he was hardly a man. No, not a man. For Man would have integrity and courage and… There once was a man who did not. But Man too was the face of famine and greed, and the cuts and scrapes and gaping holes that screamed through the black night ever lasting. There once were plenty of men like this and many with birds still circling ominous clouds, their songs falling on deaf ears from voices which refused to be ignored. And he was the epitome of such man. Stories spun like gossamer webs for the hearing of children and new generations, stories of a man who cast aside the veil of the black night to stand and scream his hatred. Stories that would undoubtedly begin along the same beating vein…

   There once was a man…

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