frozen gargoyles stare
over the night square where
willful roars of hope swell
from beneath a poet’s balcony
and glide across rainy
sidewalks
where lit pillars of melting colors
testify to the names
lettered across cardboards —
those who stood against
the hammer and sickle
and were slain,
so that the voices of ardor
could mix with the wet air
in this gotham,
as the young and the old
touch the open rose
for the first time.