Paul Dylan

You’ll recall the trip to Marburg,
black rose in your hair, I’m holding
the White Paper on the Future of
Europe and Joy Division in your ear.

What does it matter, you’d say,
if it’s French or German
the Spanish spoke to us.

No one can tell if walls are made of flags
or flags of walls, I think.

The inspector fingers a risque d’incendie
at our new amigos, English
baggage brims our aisles.

Stepping off the train
you point to slogans;
No Borders, No Nations’ and ‘Stand with Rojava
is a language we’re young enough to know.

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