Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.