In Mauerpark

Work in progress

In Mauerpark

 

On the purple salvia hill, I sit, the wall to my back, where parts of it remain

covered in graffiti, not quite beautified yet still memorialized

as if you can’t decide whether to welcome its reminder

or tear it down in yet another rebuilding of identity.

 

Berlin, who are you?

Which side of the wall do you fall?

In this patch of dirt, a former death strip, now a park

are colors of ordinary, of broken glass fragments,

of yesterday’s affairs.

The salvia breathes in cobalt spikes around my feet,

between my fingers, across the field.

 

Who am I, Berlin?

I seem to have lost myself in you.

We are the same in a way, no?

There is a cathedral in my heart that hourly marks time like prayers from the past

It is domed in the patina of tradition that has recently been at odds with its vision of worth.

In my hands there is a pen with power to write history, however I wish to represent it.

Yet, I still don’t know.

 

Who am I Berlin?

I seem to have lost myself in you.

Today, on this breezy day,

I sit in this purple-blue patch,

the up down whine of the police car,

the rumble of the tram,

of voices in a secret language

I wonder:

 

You, Berlin, are covered in paint. A constant painting and repainting,

naming and unnaming,

claiming this place with what you hold in your hand.

You’re covered in concrete and color,

As I sit here today and write,

I get closer to finding my place in you.

Author's Note

This is still a work in progress.

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

Thank you for sharing Berlin and this good write...Bravo....................