Come with me, let us allow
our spirits escape, let
us soar where the stars
are much more than distant
nuclear reactions.
Whilst the sun sets
over the good and the bad
and starlings travel
in clouds. We
sit and watch what
will have no meaning.
Crowds of pigeons
traverse the blue and the white;
wind waits
for the dusk to settle
over the barren trees,
stark against the flow of the time.
Let us go now, you and I
Like T.S. Eliot, under the sky
Where the city’s etherised by woodsmoke.
Let us stop by fallen leaves,
the street-lamps vaguely lighting
pedestrians begrumbling their path.
Mist-moistened cobblestones
slippery underfoot,
carry us up and tangentially
deeper into darkness.
The stars sing, blinded
by pollution.
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