Down Puschkinallee

An empty air turns like thoughts
left to be stepped, and bound by feet.

Borrowed breaths are paid to the sky,
Full and carved into lines, blown away.

Tired sighs echo endlessly above the
plain grey slabs of the day, and the next.

Cracks open and present the past,
Memories lived again, shown as farce.

Tragedy hangs on the winds and
leaves with the third act, painful.

An empty air turns like thoughts.

down puschkinallee

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