Feet to pavement pounding

to a rhythm set to stereo blasting –

vicious strains of rapper white

shouting out his false-sung plight, tight

within a language not his own –

and as sound of hooded youths recedes

it is replaced with gentle hum of wind in leaves,

rustling a song of Nature’s griefs,

to be thus, side by side with Man,

sometimes by such cause to die,

sometimes by such hands to thrive and bloom

to extent that gypsies’ eager fingers pluck

flowers from ground for hands to passersby

struck out on city streets nationwide,

plaintive cries of potential luck

in Rossetti’s vein echo, “Come by, come by”,

and those feet pound onwards, saying nay,

cheeks glowing with vibrant energy

of simply living, quickness mirrored

in a breath – one, two; one, two – for moving

homeward now, heart of all, pace

suitable to one flushed new

with love.

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