Fernsehturm.

We were born in the city of dreams
By the rivers of smiling cinders
And the gusts of breath
That the sky had no need for.

But the frostbit aorta
Was not measured for life
It would only pump ether
And a thick stench of gold.

We were not of the winged ones
But we mastered the ground
And the harsh art of gravity
For the fallen to learn.

We did not tread on rainbows
Nor did the light carry us on
But we learned of forevers
And devised greater nevers.

But to live and let leave
We could never assume
And to leave and let live
Could we ever permit?

On the choices of grandeur we did nothing
Right control and left freedom, we stalled
For the beckoned resolution to rain on our hearts
That beat slowly, transparent and polar.
This is not of the city of temples
This is not of the skydomes of good
Not one river flows here, not one spring
Not an ocean, or desert or foe would engulf us.

Only dust from the veins ripped asunder
Only ice on the eyelids remain
Yet the warmth that we suffer's not sun
And the breath on the pillow's not death
But an end far more subtle and grinding
Like the moon as it gleams on the white of your eyes
Like the leaves when the wind breaks formation
Just like when in the morning you change
And adorn my wet scars with your ethanol lips.

We were born in the city of dreams
We did not tread on rainbows
But we learned of forevers
And we turned them to bronze.