A world remade

Profoundly messianic, victory was hard to reach.
For decades crusaders fought one another,
Until the rock music from the Western world,
Reached through the Wall.

In a neglected yard that’s full of waste,
The hanging flags,
Most powerful, most lasting memory of the past time,
Exhaust the mystery of hands who wrote them.

It smells like spring and wishful thinking,
In lions’ dens babies are born,
Like everyone, they’re children of the new world,
Where not obedience, but truth and freedom are both sworn.

A word remade,
Inspired, without scruples,
Where wrinkles of the past are proof,
Of the moment when the beating heart of one nation,
Was brought from two halves into one,
And willed itself to live in truth.