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In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.

On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.

At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.

Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.

But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.

Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.

Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.
I am not good at this. I just want to express my pure gratitude, appreciation and awe for you.

"I am no poet. Never thought of myself as one. Just a guy dabbling clumsily in words"
Yet even, everything you do amaze me.

Thank you all wonderful people on Hello Poetry. I just realized this moment that this poem was featured as Daily poem yesterday.  I have never imagined any of my work will be posted as daily. Thank you all for the hearts, re-post,share, comments and messages. You really made my heart and soul so happy. :)
And most of all, thanks to the man who inspire me to write this one. :)
I'm going to miss you old friend.
Yet you still sit on my driveway paralysed.
Reminding me of the day we passed my driving test.
Your ****** crackling old radio, the miles you'd go for me without a grumble, and that night we effortlessly out ran that flashy peacock Ferrari from two roads down.
Your ice blue metallic paint and cream leather interior. Classically understated.
Your hefty old school body panels (felt like we were trying to move a building when we pushed you defeated and exhausted to the side of the road). But you were solid, a tank, and you always kept me safe.
Roddy Rover, my first car.
I'm going to miss you old friend.
We laughed so hard and heartedly
till our bodies contorted in the aftershock of vacant humour
I look at your dead pan expression
and the volcano erupts again.
Everyday waiting for me at the end of the road.
Your glasses cannot hide the smiles that aged your eyes.
But they still hold their innocence; an oversized toddler, excited by the prospect of everything and nothing.
It's contagious, amazing, overwhelming but never exhausting.
And to think I miss you even from across the room.
Your voice warm peanut butter tones, comforting; a pillow to the ears, inviting me in to everything you have to say.
It's all interesting to me.  
Even the mundane ramblings that fall clumsily from your mouth, and your stupid big face making me laugh so hard my cheeks hurts.
My mind toys with the idea of not knowing you and the thought, no matter how fleeting is excruciating.
**So what are you waiting for... kiss me you idiot.
Anna's kiss hit harder,
than most ****** climaxes--
left me stuttering,
sidestepping, scared of the
what's next?

Anna's hair on fire,
billowing smoke and
beckoning me to come in--
left me boiling,
bracing, barely conscious
of what's left?

Anna's bed of nails,
bled out and breathing--
left me dangerously
dumb, deaf
of what's she saying?

Anna's sharpened heels,
daggered the docile beige carpet--
left me sweating,
sighing, searching for further savior
in what are we?

Anna's black fingernails,
sunk into my shoulder--
left me lonely,
lusting, lashing in empty parking lot
now knowing,
rebirth requires a death.
'BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
What doth thy bold voice promise me?'

'I promise thee all joyous things
That furnish forth the lives of kings;

'For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow.'

'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Tell wider prophecies to me.'

'When rust hath gnawed me deep and red.
A nation strong shall lift his head.

'His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Aeons shall build him in his might.'

'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!'
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