… without ever getting anywhere close to Pynchon’s genius.
I can hear the echoes in these walls
This pock-marked stone will still connect us
On this isle of isolation
Guess they have seen way better days
And guess the same goes for us all
Three Cities among dead carob trees
Our retreat; our purgatory.
And still the rain will hold it down
Into the dust we will retreat
Searchlights finger on a 3AM sky
Spitting fire on a knife’s edge
The echoes ride on through the stone
We feel it all, fell for Valetta.
The street leads on and we must walk and don’t know why / we live / we die / we build / destroy / we dream / we wake / rebuild / retreat / we fall / repopulate / we walk the street / the consequence / does not exist / another street / who put us here / we walk the street / we build these walls / we feel it all / another bomb / another war / repopulate / what was it like / 20th Century nightmare.