The Spree Komtesse is groaning with passengers

The tables are laden with hams and bratwurst

This summer’s arteries are almost cut –

Out spill the last songs of the August nights

From all four chambers of her heart

And the black Spree takes us rolling and rolling

Cradling us down her armband of mourning

And in our sleep we dream of a prayer:

O night, Godspeed us into the morning

Let us be just as happy there! ∎

Words by Irina Husti-Radulet. Art by Ben Beechener.