Edge of the Abyss

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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.

The mystery of the Tiber flows by St. Angelo
And the hollow coliseum, where the ghosts of martyrs go.
At the foot of the Spanish Stairway, Cleopatra’s vipers hiss.
Is it love that makes us linger on the edge of the abyss?

There’s a snowfall in the valley, as the train goes whistling through.
Kafka checks your passport, and he stares right into you,
Do the gods on Shelley’s Mont Blanc keep their secrets from the Swiss?
As you run from your unconscious on the edge of the abyss.

Near Hemingway’s cathedral, sitting silent by the Seine,
Quasimodo and Esmeralda taste the cold December rain.
We fall into the red and black of a long undying kiss,
And Gustav Klimt will paint us 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.
And Dickens duels with Darwin, and they take their aim and miss,
And the thief retreats to Bedlam on the edge of the abyss.

We tramp on through an ice storm and spend the night out in the snow.
From Conway to Canaervon, we flee a nameless foe.
In dear old dirty Dublin, we could feel the touch of bliss,
But Connemara called us to the edge of the abyss.

So we drift across the ocean, which licks its icy lips.
Beneath the wasted 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.

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