bears a lingering resemblance to the past
and Pest is there in every
square and in the trap of late socialist comfort
and in every war-ridden place
freedom is just a bird perching on the wall
too far for us to reach.
I hear the whispers of street art
I speak the language of the bricks
and I can see the blood in the Spree
We tried to escape but got caught
on the barbed wire of silence
I can feel my ashes in the air.
I must have died here at one point or another.