In Hochdorf,
where it always pours,
the girls are drenched
to the skin
and the birds swim
across the ocean
of the sky.
In Hochdorf,
the bleeding rain
teems like history
down the drain
and the ghosts
of marching men
still sip
the blood.
In Hochdorf,
a train
breaks through
the sheets of tears
in old men’s eyes
and handkerchiefs wave
a stream of lives
goodbye.
In Hochdorf,
the raindrops
lodge like bullets
in your brain
and all the wet childrem
want to sing
and drink the freedom
flooding through
their hearts.
In Hochdorf,
where it always pours.
In Hochdorf,
where it always pours.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
