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Look at the buildings below. Puddles catch red reflections; the mirror clouds over and the night is elsewhere. An aquarium between the towers. The ground turns away, becomes a tunnel. Cars drift by. Sweets everywhere. Perhaps it is disappearing.
Perhaps everything is disappearing.
From the working-class cradle of the workers’ tongue, all I remember is the dignity of duty. Of memory, it seems I have only fear left, the threat of the hardships endured before me by the fallen ghosts of the working crowd.
Before my eyes lies the space where heavy recollections remain, alone before me.
Where the trains once passed. Where the buses once ran.
Where the cost of leaving was still reasonable.
We will be here. Even if there are no trains left and the price of fuel has doubled, we will be here.
Beneath the red reflections, behind the windows, among the tunnels and the puddles, we will be here.
