February 2009
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You said, the cinders are falling like snow,
There is poetry in despair,
And we sang with unrivaled beauty,
Bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence, of blue and grey,
Strange we ran down desperate streets,
And carved our names in the flesh of the city,
The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim, of the horizon,
And darkness is in the street, it curves in lines.