by Alexander Motyl


The saints have long since left.
Only their souls still stroll
along the cobblestones
of the Heiligenkreuzerhof,
through the gate
to the Schönlaterngasse,
past the Basiliskenhaus,
past the Alte Schmiede,
past the Jesuitengasse—
and then there they are,
facing Sankt-Barbara Kirche
(where so many hands were shook,
where so many sins were forgotten,
where so many cheeks were kissed),
and then off they go toward
the Gaststätte Pfudl on the right
(where so many songs were sung,
where so many laughs were laughed,
where so many Achterl were drunk)
and the Windhaag on the left,
which disappeared long ago,
along with the saints,
victim to the same damned thing
that did the saints in.

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