I blinked for two minutes into the empty air,
and suddenly, three years had scuttled by,
since the exit bell tolled exuberantly
through the cluster of doors and windows;
the hum of the Thames was a metal gong
but louder, Big Ben groaned;
I heard the splash of the angry waves
from the balcony of my distant home;
and each time a ship whistled across,
trees cracked and blocked the streets.

A soft murmur echoed from the shores,
like the tender buzzing of a sleepy butterfly,
a quiet, calm and peaceful sea,
irrigated the fields and made homes restful;
the wind learned to whisper at noon,
when it flew over our quiet terraces,
travelling from the North to the South,
without borders and hindrances.
The loneliness of the London Eye
is now the song of the Pyrenees and Alps

For those who live a life of indecision,
knowing that tomorrow will be a toxic touch;
precious for the sake of posterity,
is that wisdom must guide every footfall,
where the passing of dreams of the night before
must not wither the freshness of tomorrow;
looking inward must not outweigh the outward,
a disposition at the constant edges of reason,
where calm, peace, love and hope triumph over fear,
and London will sleep again even after exit.