Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 15

My brown-eyed girl

You, my brown-eyed girl

Do you remember when we used to sing?

Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la-tee-da

(I hear the crickets)

Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la-tee-da (bit by, bit by,

bit by, bit by, bit by, bit)

Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, tee-da-la, tee-da-la-tee-da

Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la-tee-da

Written by Van Morrison .

No, it’s not all our faults. Some are guilty and some aren’t. When a crime is committed not everyone is investigated. Most are obviously not guilty. Some made Sudetenland.

Mark X Ploited sat alone at the edge of the Spring Street Park bench in Seattle, which is situated walking distance easily transversed by even a cripple, from South Park, Sudetenland. He viewed the tents and the rubbish thrice removed and thrice returned, his jacket zipped tight despite the summer eighty degree heat. The old sycamore in front of him; once grand and leafy, was now a brittle skeleton. The city had promised renewal, but what arrived instead was silence and steel. His eyes wandered to the horizon where the sky used to bloom with the laughter of children and the clamor of late night cafés. Now, the panorama was one of drones, scaffolding, and a skyline sharp as broken glass.