The guard detachment for the presidential
palace – an NCO and four privates –
arrives in a taxi cab at ten a.m.
in front of our boutique hotel (with its own
micro brewery). They march – in somewhat
Ruritanian uniforms, rifles
shouldered – beside the high, concrete-faced wall
of what is now a public park and once
was the palace’s formal gardens before
the maps were redrawn. Some time later
we watch the high stepping sentry-go
through the ornate iron gates – Mittel Europa
transcending the carnage.