Oxford

Oxford The filigree of the old and wounded tower, rays of stone to soften the sky, Oxford, rain falls to drown the silent dreams of history. The Botanic Garden, boats like wooden chains on the water. From the Botanic Garden the flowers sing, together with the birds of ancient history. The old walls of soft and yellow stones, forgotten architecture of present time. And the years fall over humid streets, fall like drops of deep pearls of a silent sea. Across the colleges, I pass the parks, guided without deviation. In the night the lights let the streets flower, like phantastic flowers of spring. The filigree of the city is deep and freshly engraved. Rain falls to clean the sites, with a new light.