Bratislava high rises - image ©Wizzard

Child of the Revolution: A Poem

Not so long ago I was walking through Rača, the north-eastern-most part of Bratislava, when I was inspired to write this. So here we are:

 

You walk down the street, and it’s straight – without end,

And the breeze blocks and smokestacks do not relent,

And abysmal spectral faces spectate

And you’re spent – so sick so tired and spent.

 

The angles stab you, the sad fog grabs you,

All-day casino bars shriek from the pavement,

Tannoys play Patrioticheskaya,

And you wonder what the words could have meant.

 

And you’re not in the motherland anymore –

You’re in a land of your own – of cement,

You can’t see the future for the travesty,

Nor all those nice woods for the barbed-wire fence

 

And the ones that taught you: where are they now?

They sold you or bought you and told you: relent.

And the new generation: where did they go?

All the way down to get stoned in the basement.

 

Na prenájom, všetko na predaj*

Is all you see from the cracks in the pavement

Or maybe the smoke as it rises from ashes

From the sixth-floor window of your tenement.

 

And the tram trawls by but it’s gone – you’re too late,

And the bar is warm and convenient,

The brandy fires you, the ice-cold wires you,

Crystalised, you see your life; where it went.

 

* For rent, everything for sale

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