I leave by front door. Climb up, north,
beyond cardboard houses lining the route
away from the roaring city.
But, no lie, sound travels; on bridges of air,
rivers of dust, canyons delved by word and cry.
The swarming bustle echoes down centuries;
building, toil, murder, love, revolution, dying birdsong;
hate, war; the engines of humanity, channelled, set.
I walk away, towards a borderline that stretches further
with each step. And the façades surround in endless rows,
flecked with bullet holes,
as the years pass now behind me.