A small frame grips the city,
Onto which my heart hangs,
Reckless with longing, I am
Forever unable to look ahead,
But rather focused on a road that,
Like Time, escapes in the shape
Of a figure I can never recapture,
But that constantly follows me.
At times I wander its streets with condemned knowingness,
At the earliest hours, where a cloud of fog and dust,
Dwell its landscape in careless eradication.
I become a phantom of its existence.
And when the light fully floods its veins,
It casts darker shadows on its vulnerabilities.
Harsh and reckless do faces appear,
Predestined to foolish illusions.
Comfort may be sought only in the lines of an aged face,
A tribute to times lost and redeemed.
Yet as the sun prepares its retreat,
My mirror explodes with the warmth of love,
Rebuilding my demolished landscape,
In which lovers wander in the freedom of today.
And so from my mirror,
I become the soul of my city,
And it becomes mine.
Forever my soul hangs,
Bare and susceptible,
To the landscape of fog,
To the austerity of light,
To the warmth of sunset,
To a forlorn choir.