With a bottle of honey lager,
I slowly write down my fear.
It pretends to be a sattire.
But always implying to something bigger.
It continues to haunt me, even in winter(which is like summer),
Rarely do I see them.
But I can imagine them, I swear.
Flying in the air and hiding in crevices and sewage lairs.
Mom says I’m allergic to them.
Gosh, I barely touch them.
Everytime my nose tickles, sticky stuff running down my throat,
Everything, even hatred, is bitterly swallowed, only expressed by phlegm and lofty stares of indifference straight down the road.
Noises come from the pipes if you listen carefully.
Their scurrying sounds are beyond government’s capability and concern.
That’s what I fear, but it’s already been there.
Luckily I know somewhere beyond the island,
Where every harm is caught and down they fall.
Now my childhood wasted and youth staked high in the flames(or heat waves),
I would run and flap my tattered wings, away from this filthy city.
River on Baltic Sea 
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