Berlin Wall, graffiti grayed stone, messages of lost friends, broken love daubed across your granite.
Defying hooks, grappling hands, and the blaming chants of tourists.
You were never alone, there were masters, you had your use.
Heavy, not moving, Solid.
Built block by block, to sadden hearts, break bonds, to tell lies.
Razor wires that tricked soft skin, dogs’ hunger threatened to tear at flesh. Grim faces standing in cold morning mists, staring West, black guns dripping hate, made men feel strong.
Berlin is a village, was a chant you didn’t hear, sounded in bars and streets everywhere.
Spoken softly, smiles, laughs, even drunks knew. Berlin is a village.
And the Wall stood grey and cold. And Berlin was broken in two.
The Masters, masters of the Wall.
Berliners, Masters of the Village.
Berlin is a Village were the words we spoke.
Broken hearts never mended, bonds broken never healed. Pain given, is never gone, just hidden.
The Masters fled, and their servant Wall — shook and fell.
Rest once again, but don’t forget, Berlin is a Village.