All baroque has become hoary.
In February the snow-flakes are atrocity- grey,
Ignominy is the Elbe's only gift to the North Sea.

Water and wine together in vapours.
The baby and the elderly gentleman equalised in death.
The opera and the working class districts levelled in destruction.

A single poppy grows in the ashes of Dresden.
Fragile roots in the tragedy of Saxony,
Uncertain stalk in German nightmares,
Bright petals in European dreams.

While time knits mountains, a continent mends wounds.
The criminals guilt is the builders honour,
The victims' last cries will open a victorious symphony.

Germanic music, Slavonic words, Latin choreography.
Opus for many nations who are just one,
Eight hundred million hands will suffice.
 

M.Daedalus