The Five Street Village

The village
It has five streets not more
Every one knows the rest
A lake below
A ledge of rocky shore

Here
Will I reside my Monsignor?
Relocate
With me my Monsignor.

And
We will hear winter tempests
Where the wind roars round
The familiar corners
Where the scarce chill
Drips down the eaves
Solidifying
Where you hear from your bed
Rains fall and seep
Downwards on the gutter.
Where
You will hear
The tempest finish.
Open
Early woken the casements
Smell the sweet scents
Of the beginning:
And o! see the Dawn
Before you
Whitening.

by Emmanuel George Cefai

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