By the Belgrade streets, where two rivers meet,
The Danube and Sava bite ancient stones.
Where nights cast longer days, escaping heat,
The city beats of sultans, kings, and thrones.
Where Unity's firesteel forged Balkan lands,
Its fortress stands; a sentinel of time.
Sovereigns guarded many tales so grand,
Hard fought among many an empire's climb.
But, cobbled streets fill paths that we can roam
While mysteries still pass beneath my view.
I wish I could have known the Roman tome
That marked “White City” before Red and Blue.
I learned in Belgrade: history is made.
And I, a student, in its shadow’s shade.
Tag: friends
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An Ode to Belgrade
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Without Context
I’ll do my best to recall, and explain
What I remember, despite it all ablurred...
Though such an effort may well be in vain,
As the whole night was nothing but absurd.
There were dancers swinging from the ceiling,
And the crowd was aloud with laughs. Awe. Sweat.
Joker, Harley, Blinders, and a feeling
That we all know as the "Bar Lafayette".
But, words are a futile tool in relaying
What thrills we will, and still, recount since then.
These do not compare to songs replaying
In our heads; that transport us there again.
If I could describe the fun, I’d attest
That only memory describes it best.
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Fun Fact
It was not so easy to count 8 hours
By any other measure than tonic’d gin.
For best as we could, with Cabaret’s powers,
We could only tell when dancing should begin.
Addled by the shows’ spright, beguiling sight,
Bodies bound in flesh, and collar, pole, and reel;
Eyes truly outdo what words can scarcely write,
For to see such marvels: alike to feel.
But that’s not even the joy on which to dwell,
No mention of the one who ripped his pants,
The greatest joy: the chorus of the spell
Under which we fell, all night; we all danced.
In fleeting pain and joy, in music’s haze:
In dance, we spent our night. In rest, our days.
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Fromagany
The smell of cheese, with simplest ease, is tempting beyond compare, But saddest fate, a lactose hate, my body would never dare. And so good gals, my dearest pals, indulged in their delight Of cheesey bread, melted instead, gooey in every bite. Tragic, I say, my body may not feast on best of food: Sad, I know, my genes did grow an anti-lactose brood. And so they jest, like all the rest, on things I cannot eat, But in good fun, it’s tragic none, for I have my own treat. Its flavour faint, with no complaint, its taste is what I’m after, That of the sense, at my expense, of humour and of laughter. No cheese will my body comply, but dine on thus for me, On friendly pokes from silly jokes in their good company.