|
|
 |
|
Melancholy of the Antique World |
|
written
by sunyuh / 10.06.2005 |
|
|
|
|
|
| melancholy of the antique world |
1 of 1 |
|
| |
Part 1: |
| |
I’ve been sitting on stones, roaming from broken pieces, swallowing water from the fountains. Wishing them back.
I could tell you that I stood there with the sun and for a few minutes the rooftops came together. I followed the fragments. But still—
I don’t care about stories standing up in the heat—I care about history lying down, facing south, I care pressed into the ground with my back to the sky. With my mouth full of his purlieu, marble white purlieu…
There are no colors, no colors that they left planted. So it blends inside lens too old to focus in this orange light.
Printed letters setting the colors for temples, stunted of growth. I feel as if the visitors are waiting for them to fall, turn child. So the foreigners of the present can stain history.
I don’t know what they’re called—the spaces between the columns. From a distance I can watch people pass in between. They look like beautiful toy creatures created for that purpose.
The melancholy is that you can lie. But this is living without music. This city is without music. It’s full of echoes. Echoes that move through time and become concrete. The concrete whispers of stolen postcards. That want to stay in Rome and exist.
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
