I fly over a city
of pasts quilted together in roofing,
keeping the rain out with the several histories of Sofia.
The red tile,
itself a son of native soil born,
bowed, beaten, unbroken beneath the weight
of memory and millennia, fading in the sun.
The metal sheets,
a desperate roof for a desperate time,
now rusted or gone like the glory of the partisans.
The Soviet cement,
gray glue bonding the ruins of the fruits of empire,
long outliving the beauty it never had,
shaped in a past age, still shaping its people.
The gleaming glass,
Western hopes transparent,
through them we still see rain.
the golden domes,
radiantly holy in the setting sun,
set atop that city twice freed but never lost,