Plazas are grey, dogs roam, the streets
are grey and mourning doves
ride the damp wind, crying
coos but who is listening under this vacant sky?

In Bulgaria, fields of roses are grown for oil.
Plazas are grey, dogs roam the streets
amid fields of rose petals, plucked by the thousands
riding, the damp wind crying.

Verdant forests of cowslips and primroses bloom
in Bulgaria. Fields of roses are grown for oil,
between the rubble heaps. The factory shells lie
amid fields of rose petals, plucked by the thousands

between knotted strings of roads turning.
Verdant, forests of cowslips and primroses blooming
along roads that don’t lead forward or back, all tangled
between the rubble heaps. The factory shells lie

exhausted, horses waiting for slaughter
between knotted strings of, roads turning
each knot, a hidden baby tooth
along roads that don’t lead. Forward or back, all tangled

like the logic of ideology, a sham and a cheat.
Exhausted. Horses waiting for slaughter
haunting the plazas. Buildings open cracks like rope unraveling,
each knot, a hidden baby tooth

lost in islands of debris drifting down the muddy river
like the logic of ideology. A sham. A cheat.
Whirlpools stir and dissolve, debris floats in the river, dogs
haunting the plazas. Buildings open cracks, like rope unraveling.

The mourning doves rise from the empty parks,
sail high to ride the damp wind, crying,
haunting, the plazas, buildings. Cracked open like rope unraveling,
plazas are grey; and dogs. Dogs roam the streets.