The man has an olive-coloured face
He flies birds inside
We can see them reflected
In the mirror
Our hearts beat quicker
With every flap of their wings
The birds line up
Like a list
A line of letters in a row
We do not want to disturb
This history
It unfolds before us
Like a fresh white page
A plan of a city
All black lines and angles
Squares and circles
A place we will never go to
A place which confuses us
And enchants us
Where are we now
I think
There is no answer
Where we are now
Is where we have always been
Where we will always stay
As permanent as the lines
On the man
With the olive-coloured face.
