gelblog

Under the yellow sun of a bright summer dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man (and a couple of women) fixed their eyes before their feet (or onto their iPod).
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

With dead sounds on all strokes of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: ‘******** (Name der Redaktion bekannt)!
‘You who were with me on the dance floor in Heaven!
‘That guy you snogged last night on the RnB floor,
‘Has he texted you already? Will you meet tonight?

…