acht neun acht sechs vier fünf zwo sechs drei eins fünf sieben acht null the radio spews over and over again void of meaning. or so they want us to think as the concrete wall keeps standing. they came to liberate us which they did. of thought of speech of word. see the ashen blocks sit aren’t they pretty? as dark red blotches stain their smooth surfaces like lipstick on wine glasses. an old fan turns slowly in a dusty room just south of Leipzig. men dream of hazy Stalinist façades as she brings a cigarette to her rouged lips. Belomorkanal. the rusted olive uniform pulls tighter as she draws in. octaves bellow from the speakers. it is time to hear from the homeland. how sickles gleam for the Union just like they did for Lenin. we don’t talk about him now though. sickles don’t gleam here like they ought to. the reels revolve unforgiving to the cry of a winter’s night. the ruby snow glints in torchlight. the night goes on. it has to. sieben sechs vier zwo neun drei sechs eins sieben null sechs acht fünf sieben