we walk around the island at dusk.
we can't ignore the looming tower.
it feels foreboding.
it feels like a defeat.
it feels like a subversion.
it feels like a conquest.
it feels like a monstrous mausoleum.
time, we anticipate, will not look kindly on the tower in the park.
we dream of peregrines nesting in the specious quotes
about liberation carved in stone,
a beacon and a warning from the conning tower of the occupying oligarch.
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