Taken by the Google Pixel 3 XL in front of St. Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, Hungary.
Non place, non time, non sense.
My compatriots, silent as always in
Their conversations and movement through.
Through what? I say. Through what? Here I could be anywhere. 
Managed as a wing-ed stripe through blue that revels in petrol cloud, 
relinquishing any hold it has on the ground. 
It takes me here, a place abundant in newness, 
Never relinquishing its wonder.

Arrival is intrinsic to me being. And it has done well; I. Am. 
Here. Here in the by-alley waste that paints architecture 
and lightens street corner haze, stretching into the distance.
What makes this so familiar? I feel I've been here before. 
The hills become fire in my memory, as if forgotten, 
a whilst of Eden's compromise. To me, 
as it's always been, but never fully known.

We see the buzz that's wasted on all 
who live here, reveling in newness and plight.
We run for the steeple that rises from ancient 
and holy ground. It lifts the words that are lived by: 
Ego via veritas et Vita. Other buildings are not 
held as high as this belief. It graces the people too, 
marking every head and shoulder in reverence. 
And these cold walls hold a place of stillness for me too, 
keeping my gaze high, as the one who builds desires. 
The saints may smile as I tread the path they lived upon, 
shown as a veil that brambles the sky.

Time dims. Cities wake. Beams from the gaslight 
arise. Joyous sounds color the water, bliss and 
blossom spindle the eyes. I have only been here in 
longing, but now, without rest, I feel.

Flowing the wine and ripple, we relinquished our grasps of doubt. 
For the praise we met neath Saturn's light, we gave thanks.
I have never seen such light. Castling the darkness, reaching
It's fingers across the water, touching the stars. What murmur
It makes against the might of the mast, and the countenance
Of the masses. On these they look on in wonder at the start,
And triumph at it's passing. Once again, I. Am. Here.
Here with the whisper wind and velvet ground that rocks 
in solidarity with every turn of the wheel. I am removed, relishing
The existence of so much life, while yet, forgetting my own. 
Oxymoronic wonder. And yet it's what heals most.

But so in this stilling, e’er I mete the dealings and steps, 
Time yet has its place in wonder. Though myself forgot, though
Healing comes in fold, and reverence on the way, I need.
And so in sleep of this place, I rest once more.

Between revel and rest, this existing bequeaths such
Thought of more. To move in the Haven of youth that 
keeps my ears the hearing and sight unsaid.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 
As tho' to breathe were life!*
Afraid then for the losing space of four suns, I set 
To burnish the tinge of the marmot, who pries
the dirt from the eyelid to wake. Wanton in the way wonder, 
I promise I will not let die the sake from which this 
metre plays within me. I know and hold.

I know what keeps the bridges fast. I know the strength required 
is like that strength to keep me still. Strong, reliant, we trust 
without knowing. But I know that I may trust. And I remain still.

I gave it part of myself, so more may come with me. What 
is easy to forget, just means that what is left is remembered. 
I cross the Danube at last, to meet again the companions 
that go anywhere. The petrol cloud, an unseen tail of a bird 
that forgets to revel in flight, beckons me to the next. 
Beyond which I am nothing. In that empowering non sense 
of my place in existence, I am not. I do not. I feel not.
But I feel it here, the light and dark, of doubting my riddance
Of doubt. Doubting the surety in what I yearn to seek.
Yet one last look, and she reminds, like gravity. So,
For the last time, for now, I. Am. Here.
*From Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

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