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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358625" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The House Of Dust: Part 02: 03: Interlude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls<br>On bright red roofs and walls;<br>The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain;<br>We go from door to door in the streets again,<br>Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces,<br>Recalling other times and places . . .<br>We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate,<br>We crowd together and wait,<br>A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled,<br>The ambulance drives away.<br>We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say<br>'A man fell off the building and was killed—<br>Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again<br>Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men,<br>And go our separate ways, each bearing with him<br>A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,—<br>A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street,<br>The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones,<br>Wings are upon our feet.<br>The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright,<br>Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light.<br>We bear our dreams among us, bear them all,<br>Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall,<br>Climb to beauty and die.<br>The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth,<br>And smiles at the hostile sky.<br>The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune.<br>The murderer hears a cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Conrad+Potter+Aiken">Conrad Potter Aiken</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358625" data-title="The House Of Dust: Part 02: 03: Interlude de Conrad Potter Aiken" data-description="The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls
On bright red roofs and walls;
The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain;
We go from door to door in the streets again,
Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces,
Recalling other times an..."></div>
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