The immense city with shores
of stone and wood:
I build it
with dreams of eternal flames.

I wait for cars and lorries to pass.
The street is moving.
My feet on
the pavement seek heavenly time.

I pick up the scent of rain.  The city
is like a drawer of fresh languages.
I put on its new life.
I wander through its ancient houses.

In each shop window I see my cruel
Defeat is not a suit.
Hope is not a church.  I burn its doors.

I pass dark faces in panic and regret.
Whoever lives for me I am not alone.
My soul
is a liar but its mortal heart is divine.

I speak in tongues of water.  I listen
to works of art,
where galleries
without music play old European songs.

I stare at spiritual empires of beauty and
where pictures
dance in grotesque colours on silent walls.

Strangers of light follow me outside, where
the dust on my shoes
is clean as remains,
the spirit of all graves, turned into silence.

I sit on white marble steps, where trees grow
out of concrete floors
like wild tenants in a
strange garden, gifted by brazen generations.