I leave by front door.  Climb up, north,

beyond cardboard houses lining the route

away from the roaring city.

But, no lie, sound travels; on bridges of air,

rivers of dust, canyons delved by word and cry.

The swarming bustle echoes down centuries;

building, toil, murder, love, revolution, dying birdsong;

hate, war; the engines of humanity, channelled, set.

 

I walk away, towards a borderline that stretches further

with each step.  And the façades surround in endless rows,

flecked with bullet holes,

as the years pass now behind me.