A flag without a centre has a heart
of stone and soil, a void that slowly heals
itself with tears and toil, with molten steel.
As bullets rip the bitter air apart
and banners call for revelry to start,
the world rolls on with slowly turning wheels ‒
for history’s a trail of secret deals,
the future mapped out by an unseen chart.
What is to come can rarely be foretold ‒
a socialist utopia turned to ash,
an unexpected reckoning from the dead ‒
you’ve reached the point where you’re not getting old:
the Internationale’s final crash,
the Târgovişte snow and ice blood red.