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Misty Ode
lucas1976 wrote in bpsociety

Misty Ode


A city, quiet at times,

Implores me in the density of its air,

Begs me to walk through it with stormy eyes,

With soaring sleepless eyes.


That city breathes and uneven rhythm of nostalgia and sorrow

Of bewilderment not yet revealed.


The noble lineage of Buda

With its dignity tainted

By plebeian defeats,

By the arrogant barbarism of the unravel masses

By the troubled wind of cruelty and divestiture.


The brilliant lineage of Pest

Shadowed by terror,

Surrounded by packs of wild dogs

Gathered to devour its glory,

To put their teeth over its scepters and temples.


That city, quiet at times,

Has sunk the name of its sorrow in an obstinate silence,

In a rictus,

In an impatient inflection of the delicate tongue of the land.


To those streets redeemed by music

And poetry and flowers,

Is that some men owe their words,

The chance of being said, at least,

To be named,

To number the lines in their hands.


To that river if indefinite color,

Solemn and taciturn

Owe some souls the cadence of their steps,

The last destiny of their shade.




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