Archaeologists of our time
examine the exposed sand
between the foundations
for the future

Retro is modern
cars are banned
tourists consume
the old town

Big money flows
outside the city centre
Within the canal district
permits are skimming it

Residents are leaving
the harsh world
of stone, glass, and concrete
they veer

to canals with islands
of greenery, to boats and houses
with hollyhocks on the facades
and gardens on the rooftops

The almond blossoms:

everyone comes here to watch!


Cars! And radios!

When you go boating,

you are part of the city-


scape that others see.

We do fitness on

the canal: we pedal hard --


to see the quaysides.

Steps shimmer beneath

the bushes, a carved staircase --


Once used by tourists.

You hear the echoes

of guides everywhere, despite --


the signs 'Silence Please'.

No fast traffic here
no high steel and concrete
in the streets, but
walkable space

The sun draws attention
away from us, towards the light
on the black facades on the harbour
the white cornices and red tiles:

the picture for the photos
of the tanned tourists
on the terrace of the tanhouse
who walk into our gardens

as if we live here
in an open-air museum
and should praise
their silly insolence

as a decent interest
But we can live with it
The visitors walk around
in a parallel reality

and we have real neighbours
a wide sky, the wide water
and the green island
We can breathe here

as the wood breathes
in the seasons
as the wind breathes
in the grass

It is empty on the Grand Square
The guide tells about the past
His words blow over

Birds above the roofs, white clouds
it takes a long time
until we go for a drink

In the café we cross over
in each other's language
to the streets where we live

and everything is the same
in a different way

We sing along to the songs
of our teenage years and toast
the world that is becoming ours

I stall for time, don't want to let go
of the guide, I'd like take him with me
and show him around my own city

let him see with my eyes
after seeing what he saw
not knowing what he was thinking

Tourists are a plague,

going further and further --


they keep crossing lines.