Tuesday, January 31, 2012


Treptower Park
It flutters, it whispers, it flies low.
It murmurs time and solitude.
It travels the lights of stars above
and you, you are not here...

The train, loneliness in itself,
hums the future away in wheat fields of now.
Filled with waves of yellows,
I travel and whisper your soul...

The radio is loud, the table is set.
A book sings the eternal song of yesterdays.
The sun rises and I rise and you rise and time flies.
It flutters in whispers of low…

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