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Hanging Gardens

The quick Coy Carp dart startled at the image

mirrored on their murky waters.

Sliding curling to deeper depths

they seek safety in the thick haired algae.

This round pond’s waters turned the long turbines.

In the sanctuary of ancient machinery,

old Veterans of oil crank and piston,

thudding and coughing, died...

Bygone eras of sharp top hats and lace handkerchiefs

and barefoot running poverty in the back alleys,

- an era of wide bridges and excitement,

with the sound of steam running through the stations,

reduced to two twisted limbs of torn metal.

Warped and rejected like the overgrown train tracks,

in the forbidden ground. Here,

the strange oaks have cast dark shadows on the path,

stirred crimson leaves scuttle and rustle by retreating feet,

greeting burgundy roses bob their heads at meeting.

Only grey and black Carp shadows turn around

in slow endless cycles towards the twilight.

As the Gardens fall silent only they

remember.




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