The Bustling Of The Morn Is Faded. Still The Streets Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The bustling of the morn is faded. Still the streets
Slumber in the orange neon lights and
Over the grating steps paces rarely sound
The wind neighs slowly every now and then
Antique the bastions stand, antique they dream
Before the night cloaks the slow eyes of day
When the first russet of the welcome dusk
Is eagered in.

A woman opens a door and throws
Water into the street; closes the door.
A few doors down a door ajar let out
The yellow neon light.

From top of the street the port I see
Dreaming in black. Between
The saltiness of the sea and where I stand
A flight of steps aged hundreds of years
Traversed by cavaliers, sailors, whores,
Priests, bishops, sentinels, monks, cats,
Dogs, scholars, boors, farmers
And others.
For all of these time fell down the time-glass.
Little they noticed or did want to.


The cobra danced alone
In the middle of the steps she danced
Raising her thin head to the moon
Inviting her to war and fight:
Yet the moon smiled, smiled pale and wan and calm.

Over the sea the silver goblins hopped
Informal in their Olympics: no crowds cheered
No publicity, no medals, none.

A cat walks down the steps without a noise
Its tail half-raised caresses every higher step
As it goes down.

And the same night similar and equal
To other nights that were and that will be
With one eye open looked over the Port.