The carvings on the stones
Read like scars
In this city that has bled for centuries
And I’m no clot to slow the flow

The veins of this country have been pricked
And punctured

And the skin ripples in the wind
Like a half flown flag

I have come here to bury my past
In the tombs of my fathers
And build a bridge
That will still be standing by morning

For now
I tread seconds in this liquid night
And press my palms
Against the scarred stones
As if maybe they might whisper me their secrets
And clot my bleeding history