Sergio Toppi - The city
I found a book in Lucca wonderful Toppi,
this here. Basically, the Lord hath been prompt and did a 25sentence on the City and then if it is also shown. The full force is the combination of text / design, but some issues seem too beautiful in itself and I transcribe them as proposing prompt:
the column. of the city remained a chaotic pile of rubble from which no one could reconstruct the past. only one column is left standing. the bit of time has marked the strange hieroglyphics. at his feet, an old offer for a donation to decipher those written tell of tall buildings in the sun, sparkling with multicolored stones. but when the signs they are becoming hot and evanescent, canceled the season, then the old silent. the name of the city will never know anyone ...
city siren. face of tempting smile full of promise. how many of these will be kept?
hold. water, remember, came to lick the walls of the city. then the ground has sucked. now the tough marsh grass besiege my boat, but my patience is tougher than theirs. expect, the waters will return.
hold. for years I sit in front of the door of this city shrouded in mystery. For years I hoped that from that dark rectangle in a voice that came out to explain to me the secret of these walls. nothing came out and the lines on my face are getting deeper.
appearances. the city is young, short years of its history, but also her along the roads at night can show its age-old issue.
sleep. the city sleeps. a peaceful sleep, comforted by dreams have dreamed. the city sleeps while the cracks in the walls forming arabesques nice and the grass in silence wins more and more new spaces. out the world is fast, the city sleeps.
the door. There is a guard from the eyes of the stone gate of the city. behind walls, trees, houses surrounded by greenery and quiet. many are asking to enter, but if the guard sees with eyes of stone stains on their souls, the door remains closed. Sometimes a stray, poor bone sticks filled with hungry, tired, stops at the door. then down, silent on bronze hinges, open.
on the windowsill. I lived and worked in the port city and also the signs. now is the time of peace. I watch a small bird, the scraps that I leave on my windowsill. no one bothers him here among the houses. the city sometimes is good.
views. the city grows and does not stop, look far to ambitious goals. could perhaps stop for a moment and look down.
farewell. I leave the city, the decision is irrevocable. it is just take the first step and jump behind a lifetime. I do not know what it is but something stops me. leave tomorrow.
excavations. need new space, the city is growing, the bulldozers are working tirelessly. deep down, buried and forgotten ancient gods ears tend to those noises. maybe see each other the light.
truce. there are hours in the dead of night when the roar of the city shuts down, waiting for dawn. as a performer who, tired, falls asleep on his instrument, a short sleep before resuming his daily toil at daybreak.
clarification. I have always kept above all controversies on furniture urban city.
0 comments:
Post a Comment