In the Minstrels Gallery


Pity not the city that will not dream,
She could sleep if She wished
Once, when we were younger, She slept deep.
Then, Her dreams held me in thrall.
Amazing deeds were done in Her name,
Fancy art spoken, Fine promises whispered.
The songs of the world beat with Her heart.
But now, She has been awake too long.
She has shut the door on sleep.
What dreams await
when your veins are awash
with the detritus of hundred thousand small things undone?


(this is a companion piece to "The Fifth Bridge")

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