Chris Quinn

Dublin, January 30, 1981
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The drowned city

As I walk to the office, through a city made strange by emptiness
The skies over Merrion Square roil like moody surf
And, for a moment, a vision fills my eyes
A city drowned beneath the waves, with neither gravity nor bustle

A discarded face mask caught in the silent tidal rhythm floats by
Waters not of the salt of biblical ire but wrought of carelessness
And yet, In the desert of the real
The furore of noise and faces has become amniotic and tranquil

This final deluge, oblivion’s tide, does not bring distress
But arrives like rain on parched sand
Allowing a small flower of serenity to bloom
Midst the cracks in the footpath
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