The Edge of the Abyss

Sitting with Ramona in an ancient empty tomb,
We talk of Barcelona when the lilacs were in bloom.
The past is full of shadows as we try to reminisce,
So we light another candle on the edge of the abyss.

A corpse face down in the Tiber floats by San Angelo
And the hollow coliseum, where the martyrs make their show.
If you climb to the top of the Spanish Steps, you can hear the vipers hiss,
And poor John Keats draws one last breath on the edge of the abyss.

Von Aschenbach’s in Venice, strolling by the Grand Canal,
While from an upper window young girls sing that sweet chorale.
And D’Annunzio in a gondola fingers him some bliss,
As Hemingway lifts another glass to the edge of the abyss.

There’s a snowfall in the valley, as the train blows straight on through.
Kafka checks your passport, and he sends you to Camus.
The dying gods of glaciers whisper secrets to the Swiss,
Six hundred stripped stark naked on the edge of the abyss.

Let us bow to Victor Hugo, sitting somber by the Seine,
As Quasimodo and Esmeralda taste the cold December rain.
We fall into le rouge et noir of a long and fretful kiss,
And Gustav Klimt will paint us on the edge of the abyss.

The four winds blow ‘cross Normandy through the gardens of Flaubert,
As seabirds on the beaches sense that something’s in the air,
Trying to convince themselves there’s nothing much amiss,
When waves of blood crash in to shore on the edge of the abyss.

By the Tower Bridge of London, where the princess lost her head,
The Thames turns dark and crimson, as we remember all the dead.
As John Donne duels with Darwin and they take their aim and miss,
The thief retreats to Bedlam on the edge of the abyss.

In Edinburgh Castle, as it’s seen from Arthur’s Seat,
Mary Queen of Scots can smell the victory and defeat.
Down by the docks of Liverpool, there’s a sound you can’t dismiss,
John Lennon slain on Mathew Street on the edge of the abyss.

So we tramp on through an ice storm and slip across a frozen lake,
From Conwy to Canaervon, half asleep and half awake.
In dear old dirty Dublin, the Liffey’s filled with piss,
And Connemara calls us to the edge of the abyss.

Now we scull the North Atlantic, which licks its icy lips.
Beneath the iron waters, we can see Ulysses’ ships.
A journey through the ages, yes, and all we’ve got is this—
A fog in New York harbor on the edge of the abyss.

1979, 2011, 2015, 2019, 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Michael Kim Roos