I read in a book that the grey of the clouds
and the wet cobblestones could devour the light.
The cold and the rain will get to your bones.
Pictures of someone in exile, who ran away
from the metropolis to the charming little city
Everything depends on the color of the crystal
that one looks through. My pictures were bright,
full of green, with the cobblestones as pieces of a puzzle,
drawing the silhouette of a legendary place.
Subterranean secrets of lives lost underground
coexist with the nights that build oblivion,
of the previous generations and eras.
The grass is always greener in Edinburgh.
Trees seem statelier and of thinner twigs,
Old Town and New Town sleep in silence.
The forest of chimneys talks to me about the past,
blue sky and winter light caress my face
through the attic window.