London

by BOB GALLO   Mar 18, 2020


London
caressing the bruised pelt of a perpetual wisdom,
scattering statues in the endless cobblestones of bones.

Each stone is a crossroad of sculpted reminiscence
in a collective sculpture of cultures.

London
in the end of each major road
infinite words, timeless poetries:
word by words, stone by stone, tower by tower.
Each stone is a step to the panicle of an astounding equipoise,
a rhythm popping out at the end of each sentence,
each path in its random mode
Draws the outline to an unrivaled wisdom:

An archangel,
a hero with a sword in his hand,
a voice that is never lost,
that is raises beneath the surface of the glories,
the triumphs
of these rush-hours
something that sharpens the pinnacle of
a poetical whim.

London
a sublimity that exposes your needed rhyme,
gives you an edge to bow
your arrows of inspiration.

London
This mystic stalks of the Giant Plan trees,

the crown canopy of awe-inspiring resistance
against its own imperialism.

London
searching for the nameless heroes
the soldiers of forgotten times
In the museum of sagacity,
imprisoned in the fabric of reason
In the fossils of purposes.

London
each step, each stone each projected monument
a London itself,
a gem, in the cotton of fog
like sun, shining in the presentation box.

London
where the swans palpitate
between the two question marks
of their necks,

the bulwark of swans
the bulwark of my
swan lakes.

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