industrial soft white
metal and the open door of night.
I dream in grey,
an homage to the wall days
and even buried deep
in the Bavarian heart
never know what Mutti’ll say:
a different rule,
a different day.
But when you grow up on rations
you don’t know a feast,
which can taste like a wine bar
date with yourself after weeks.
The chatter a bit like clucking hens,
hooks without grins,
and grey goodbyes.
so I won’t dare cry.
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