Snow from red-grey palisades of ruined grandeur.
To each their tortured ends – bold harbingers of the dejected heart.
All people must suffer the rules of dejection.
Our purpose, then, is to defy the rules of the oppressors.
And to find ways of transforming our dejections into ecstatic denials of emotional regress.
There are no words for this day.
Only a ray of sunshine that dazzles the mourners.
It’s Nature’s contribution to sorrow.
The acknowledgement of our loss.
A reminder that Nature is our confidant.
And the erstwhile friend of our friend departed.
The colourful city arrests the spirit with charms of warmth and the delusion of summer.
It cannot shift the mighty inverted vacuum of time immemorial against the recessions of winter.
Winter is tactless and brazen, like some automated ghost on a loop of haunting.
It follows us across the continent like a shadow of improbable notions.
It raises havoc in the form of a moaning visage whose terrors are mute.
The Bolognese seem to enjoy the novelty of victimhood.
They know what lies ahead.
The reverse order of oppression.
The spectre of heat as heavy as a time-dependent burden of shame.
San Luca is the host of religious visions.
The presence of God is a human silhouette at the top of a thousand steps of steep ascension.
The rehearsals of Biblical Armageddon are without witness.
Played out here like creations of my lunatic optimism.