We Who Wish To Sing in the Morning
by Oliver Rice
I would not argue
for Sir Christopher Wren nor Frank Lloyd Wright,
for the pyramid nor the skyscraper.
I dwell on our empathy for stones,
we who come out of a darkness,
telling our stories.
The sound they make, fitting into place.
Their presence, their legitimacy, sitting together
along a strada, a strasse, a rue
where they go intently, in whose psychology
lost cities loom.
Their endurance, as if earnestly, as if steadfastly,
plain truth of a rathaus, a cathedral , a palazzo
where we linger, accidental entities,
whose symbols incline to allegory.
Their capacity for introspection, for innuendo
in a midnight piazza, an old town alley
where we listen for sayings of the gargoyles,
we who are hostage to the inevitable.
Their dreadful humanity in a ruin
where the shadow of a cloud drifts over us,
who have a mindsore that will not heal.
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