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The Bunker

Solid Squares,
a 'Fyne Vakantie',
the Germanic Taunt printed on the wall,
Greetings for the visitors meandering to their holiday womb.

A land Raped like a Sabine virgin,
wounds of earlier days.
A monument to militant mendacity,
a concrete confession.

Most sail bye,
never connecting the 'why',
Languidly surfing their spring.
In these peaceful days,
the doors are shut.

Even Nature tries to forget,
Wild roses masking the bitter memory,
closing the chapter,
as the cracks begin to grow,
weakening these graffitied walls.

The bushes bury them,
and they are lost to time.
soon the earth will reclaim them,
and cover these Grey mental blocks,
along with us all,
The battered, withered, wall.

RMP. 2001


 
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