The street is as filthy as it is abandoned. The clouds foretell rain. And the wind bristles, sending shivers along my spine.
The street is as filthy as it is abandoned. And now the clouds have started spitting cold water. I have walked from one rusting "peace gate" toward another, sticking to the Catholic side, since walls force that type of decision. Over there is grim poverty. Over here is the same.
copyright 2006-2010 by Ira Socol