It’s 2018 August 12th
Night is falling,
the photographs in my hands radiant with the light of the past
where hills touch the sky,
not my parents‘ earth, only the ground they built on.
Their voices tender with longing for the motherland,
while there is merely my own
heart I see in the vast desert,
homeless, homesick,
waiting for moss to grow over that earth too.
Finally silence
where once was the noise of the nation,
we are children again,
alone in the motion of the Prague-Berlin train.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
It’s 2018 August 12th
Night is falling,
the photographs in my hands radiant with the light of the past
where hills touch the sky,
not my parents‘ earth, only the ground they built on.
Their voices tender with longing for the motherland,
while there is merely my own
heart I see in the vast desert,
homeless, homesick,
waiting for moss to grow over that earth too.
Finally silence
where once was the noise of the nation,
we are children again,
alone in the motion of the Prague-Berlin train.
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