Berlin’s having a cold snap;
Brutal, arctic, east wind blasts,
And ice fetters the river’s flow.
Birds skirmish over scraps,
But where the books are,
It’s warm and cosy;
Even the smell comforts,
Fusty stale paper remembrance.
What’s branded on your leafs,
Celebrated eternally in your chapters?
I see it now: the brilliance of your past,
Artist and craftsman, fused;
Crystal symbol of a new faith.
Beacon burning brightly,
Flaring and abruptly quenched,
Just before the Nazis took you.
Bauhaus, like Berlin, you are cold now,
But your legacy peeks through,
Like bulbs breaking iron soil,
In winter most forlorn –
Promise of spring.
In the glow of this archive
I will pull these volumes to me
And blanket myself in their warm pages.

© DJMac 2013

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