A cold wind
Blows outside,
And the leaves
Slowly fall to the
Ground and
Wild weeds grow
In an empty car park.

While the skylarks
Swirl under a grey
Winter sky over
Decaying city streets;
Torn posters flap
On brick walls,
And the paint peels
On closed wooden doors,
And raindrops trickle
Over rust patches
On exposed pylons
And bent poles.

The dust is thick
On windowsills,
And the window
Shade is torn and
Held together by
Sticky tape,
And tired eyes
Stare out
Of the corners
Onto the wet
Grey bitumen
Streets,
And the
Memories
Of the past
Haunt the
Present

The
Skylarks
Remain,
And they
Swirl silently
Over the body
Of a dead
City.

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With a digital drawing from Nikos Laios

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