As long as you don't write a song of praise.
As long as you remain willing not to sing,
but to whisper like water – murmuring
through the goto above your head, rushing
in the pipes beneath our feet
As long as you understand that the city is a part
yours, as well as the other way around. As long
As you feel every city has the heart beat
from you and me and everyone, from
day to day to day to day.
As long as you understand that old walls
old stars are: slightly aged, centuries
en route. As long as you know more secrets
than you betray. As long as you always gone
want; but never leave.
Poem: Ingmar Heytze