What collection

A view with some room
As dreams go by


What collection

on a tram going… anywhere.

There’s always beauty to absorb

And forgive me this

But I don’t rely on the soft

Murmurings of children,

Their whispering delights,

The sheer ecstasy in their laughter:

Its peel, its shrill,

Its peak, its crescendo.

I mean not this!

What collection,

Collective beauty

Striking in their multitude,

Amazing to behold.

And I do not mean

The Christmas lights,

The street stalls,

Vendors and all;

I do not imply

That the passers-by,

Each with his tale;

That’s not for me.

The cars full,

Or just one,

Going some other places.

The workmen starting, finishing,

The orange light flashing

as it darts by,

and I by it do fly.

I do not mean this either.

For this is not my beauty now.

Above, beyond the streetside buildings

The glowing castle on the hill,

It stands above its dominion grand,

A pleasure to behold.

The literature around its streets

The tourists amassing

In Its wake;

The history,

The lineage deep – but

This is not here what I mean.

The river gently rolling by

between two banks

both day and night.

It is not blue, not anymore,

for darkness and the

time have fallen.

Yet secretly

in sleepers’ dreams

it moves

between two cities

still; a waltzing,

gliding majesty:

but this still is

not the one beauty.

High Culture, low,

theatre or pub

where voices eloquent erupt

and wisdom

often hid in slur

still not the beauty to

which I refer.

All beauty, every single thing

transformed by smiles

and my thinking –

Finally it diminishes with this,

My basic urge, my flailing thrust.

I am a man quite positive

and sitting on this tram tonight

I think of all

That art has found

but my fond lust

is still around.




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