Victoria Frigerio/ Photography's photostream

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Mayfair strange in the morning light,
Mayfair strange in the summer night,
Mayfair strangest in the afternoon.
Mayfair stretching far above,
full of fame but lacking love,
Could it be we see the Mayfair moon?

Mayfair strange across the park,
In the day or in the dark,
There's no need to walk or even run.
Mayfair faces clean and nice,
But beauty here is cold as ice,
Could it be we see the Mayfair sun?

Mayfair strange at every hour,
Hidden frowns with mystic power,
Starry heights and golden throne,
Down below you're on you're own.

Mayfair strange for passers-by,
Sights of wonder for the eye,
Could it be they'll pass by again?
Mayfair calling far and near,
For even trees are wealthy here,
Could it be we hear the Mayfair rain?

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So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.