The Sighs That Remain Still Breathes Poetry to Me

What had become of my friends in this city of memories,
Who laid hands to my life and spun delicate reality:
Where now goes the eloquence of that wordy smith by the sea?
What of that cleverly motherly poet-visionary?
My dear brother, and his lovely wife, a blossoming fairy?
The venerable old leader’s quest, manic with a story?
The young romantic artist sketching on train stationary?
When I open my weary eyes, the street remains empty,
But there, floating on the corner of my urban fantasy,
A gentle sigh beneath a flickering lamp: our history.

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