ON THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN
On the other side of town,
through the curtains of Haaggasse,
you can hear the blackbirds weeping in the night,
the screaming of a desolate widow
and the drains of history
gurgling with the blood of spilt dreams.
On the other side of town,
on the back walls of Bismarckstrasse,
you can see that tragedy lies waiting for you
in the deaths of moths and butterflies
and the dripping wings of oil-soaked dreamers,
crushed on the streets to drown out the singing in the trees.
On the other end of town,
on the moonlit paving stones of Gartenstrasse,
In the saddened lines of a refugee's poetry,
you can hear the crackle of a synagogue burning,
the crushing boots of a blinding ignorance
and the wretched tolling of bells repeating themselves.
On the other side of town,
In a lonely pension room,
there's a worn-out man who dresses himself
and his memories stick to the tips of his bootlaces
as he trails down the stairs
to stumble into another lost day.
On the other side of town,
in the Holzmarkt gutters where Hesse made poems,
more soldiers march to rape a young beauty,
kill the joy in a choirgirl's throat
and bring to an end the chance of a good God
or a heaven for beggars to dwell in.
On the other side of town,
in the shadows that only Payerstrasse knows,
you will find me and my solitary pen scraping away
to throw rhymes down my neck
and sink into the insane night,
with a town clocks’ hands trembling in the dark rain.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
