torn:apart

shadows and sirens on the meadows of my blue pupils. from six to eight a.m. the walls of berlin they just churn in front of them you almost forget the bitterness of prague this holy city you cannot swallow only the mediocre shall survive this hell of too much love the cranes crave for gravity the scapes towering above this frail fabric eleven at twelve, ten bruises fear excentricity everyday to forever called up for war that never took place

 

::: russia:germany :::