Spots of light Gambling the night Nervous blasts of colours, electric colours, gigantic colours Explosions of yellows and reds beating your eyes Suddenly undercovered by the black all around The black of the night The hissing of the night Yellow eyes, pulsing on the corner, as a beast waiting for a victim. Wind beating the horizon, flogging the city walls, counting the time The city under the wet sensation of a long winter night Breathing as you breathe. The present is just the expectation of the future Days to come, miles away A foreign language. Not a unique country anymore Walking in the city
Strolling around the block, shuffling in the streets, smelling the flavours of the life, kissing the air, looking to the signs on the walls. People look friendly and confident People look frantic and absent Those standing in front of you, who they are? Cannot say I don’t love this place Cannot say I love this place either Grove bistro facing the small river A shelter, sort of Rain outside. Cold and icy Falling down on the gray river water Circling and circling, each drop a tear between many Inside. The shelter and the warm sensation of belonging Depeche Mode in the air Music of 80s Pictures on the walls. Rome and Florence in the 50s, black and white Silent figures standing and watching Years and years ago They Could not imagine becoming immortal this way “One Espresso?” The boy recognized me, second time here “Yea, one espresso, single shot, please” Sitting on the table close to the window, the river was dirty and cold. Silver metal color The tables outside Glittering by the water on the surface Loads of small drops falling and bouncing on it. Noise faded away, music only a whisper. Time seemed to slow down A handful of minutes Maybe hundreds Maybe none The espresso came, along with the gentle smile of a black haired girl Nice people here, I said to myself. Gentle and friendly, as always. They give their own contribution to the sensation of being the place a shelter, a place where to stay while the unknown and unwanted simply rules the world outside. “I don’t belong here” I thought I belong to other countries and dreams, cultures and illusions. Too many countries I belong to. I knew this pretty well This bistro is a shelter, at least for one night, at least for this night Outside The river, dark gray dressed. Cloudy sky, strom bringing Inside Wodden tables A warm sensation of protection A candle on the table Young boys and girls resting before the night begins Tall and slim, black dressed, curly blonde hair, piercing It was the boy Black dressed, blu eyes, long black hair It was the girl Those two among the others Life evolving and cycling Collecting people Merging different stories Into new paths In space and time. An island, an empire Land of Hope and Glory The rain was over Cold wind beating the streets Dark gray was the sky Heavy and menacing A promise A stronger storm will come soon. Time Table A carved oak table, Tells a tale Of times when Kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold, And the brave would lead their ladies from out the room to arbours cool. A time of valour, and legends born A time when honour meant much more to a man than life And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong Through lance and sword. Why, why can we never be sure till we die Or have killed for an answer, Why, why, do we suffer each race to believe That no race has been grander It seems because through time and space Though names may change each face retains the mark it wore. A dusty table Musty smells Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor Only feeble light descends through a film of grey. That scars the panes. Gone the carving, And those who left their mark, Gone the Kings and queens now only the rats hold sway And the week must die according to nature’s law As old as they. (Time table, Genesis form “Selling England by the pound”) Comments are closed.
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AuthorStories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths. Archives
December 2021
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