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We're only ever Temporarily beautiful - A new collection of selected poems. The morning was surprisingly bitter, even for mid-January, cold toes runny nose numb hands useless Berghaus. The late and withered sun gradually slid between the stoic pillars of the old-world buildings enclosing the square. Strange, how so much noise, Could be concealed within such silence... I noticed black, green, white and red flags swathed across the walls and eaves of the neighbouring opera house, two men swiftly pulling them down, putting them in bags, and hurrying inside. Here, in this place... 'My God', I thought, 'we're not going to make it!' An unnerving quiet fell as the new light built, with nothing else present but a soft push of birds that had gently descended upon the cobbled stone, otherwise, not making a sound... It was my first time in Berlin, first time in Germany, and as suggested by my old friend Aaron Boas, who had lived there the worst part of his life, I found myself in Bebelplatz, carrying with me now, a grave trepidation that dissuaded me wanting to venture further in. The unmistakable weight of men's horrific proclivity for horror hung in the air like the palpable pressure of a mighty storm, with the ripening threat of breaking - yet again. I thought of my wife and children at home, Safe and healthy, of how much and often I had taken our peace and warmth for granted. Some existing residual of innocence in me, couldn't help but conjure images of Harrison Ford asking for Hitler's autograph as I absorbed the faces, the voices, the subtle changes in space. Glistening up ahead, a satanic flame danced in vague crimson from the centre of the square - There... There it was. A bronze plate set in the ground, wearing upon its face the most prescient of all historic inscriptions. From Heine's - Almansor, 1820. ""That was but a prelude. Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well"". In that moment of inward silence, past the ghost of a troubled breath, a commotion was unfolding at the gate of the opera house, large groups of men and women had descended, attempting to drape more flags about the building, violently dissatisfied at those few attempting to disrupt their intentions. Hearing their screams pierce the morning grace, I could smell a distinct fire and smoke, pages of life and history as smolt ash climbing through the broken arms of time, In unity, I perceived a collective madness, and in their crazed and senseless eyes, I saw the terrible key's that had once opened the foul breath of Tartarus - Observing so few, Against the holy vitriol of so many - 'My God', I thought, 'we're not going to make it!' We're not going to make it... D A Regan

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