At first slowly, building
and then completely the sun rises
warmming as it rays itself onto the
city, still asleep

The ray-lets of light sniggle and shimmle
their small ways through every tiny crack and
crevice of building, past musty smells, and
spills of embalming fluid -- as yet no need of

And past finery shops whose smugged windows
await their shop keeper's helper's cleaning
rag -- so to show what finery can be purchased

And at last with pointed carrots of light that
top the first hill, and the catherdral and
then tiny, wavering reflect-lits of light off
a river that has flown and flowed and flued
by more thousands of years than any cesar
can ever be.

Spreading its warmth, small fishes wake from
from their drifiting and wondrous dream-filled
worlds as whales they cascade through oceans
that would frighten any wake-full minnow but
in those dreams they crest and fluke and
then suddenly become graceful blue mountains
of warm gray cooled slowly by evaporating sea
mists they they in their waking will often
day-dream about, as the flow over small falls
and along sticky, muddy-wondrously-smelling
shores.  And fully awake, the fishies swim
and then above them fly the birds as if
in answer to some question posed by dreaming
minnows, flutter suddenly into the air,
more and
and more until the very air is nothing but
fluttering wings on white crisp, cooled,
but warming air.

And when at last they have control of the world,
comes the first sound of a far-off cart pushed
sullenly along by a sleepy shop keeper.  Along,
past shops, where the shop keeper's helper's
rag and water clear away dust and now the light
glints for the first time against and through
and half-reflected back into and down into
the streets, lighting them.

And pushing the cart along, the merchant squints
from the light. But the light is relentless and
builds and builds, waking all of the inhabitants,
even an old man who lies ill in the bed, and lifts
his spirits and the woman who is his daughter
comes to bring him breakfast to ask,

But, then come the roars of winds and sounds,
and songs and the life of the city in full
rise of the glory of the day.

And the bankers and judges and business people
who are not (and never would be so dirtied) as to
be mere tradesmen -- come to open their banks
and insurance companies, and chemist shops and
all of their important places of commerce.

And the great women of the city begin their
daily chore of seeking out things to purchase,
of food, of clothes, and of many things with
many franc's until the flux of commerce
completely engulfs the city at all levels of
need and have.  Until the light of the sun
rises so strongly overhead that it is clear
that the day is well under way and can never
be denied.

And they lunch.

And rest


How tired everyone is after lunch, some more than
others.  More windows to be cleaned, more money
to be counted, and more of the things that do not

Two young women, stop in front of a grocer's
display and talk of the many wonders of their lives.
And compassion and hope flows with their words that
a hundred poets, and artists, and composers, and
dancers, and sculpters -- sitting quietly in their
warm rooms will remember and cast into form of
their own chosen oevre.

And two wealthy women, contrasting these will be
fitted for large dresses that they will wear to
a dance that night.  And they too are of the most
beautiful thing to the artist seeking inspiration.
And different shades, and notes, and words, will
be chosen to contrast and compare their very
different like-ness-es.

And important men and common laborers as well,
continue the jitting jutter of their words in
argument about worldly topics -- rarely discussing
their families.  But, it too is a breath of
the essence of the city.  They reason and laugh
and contend and be-friend back and forth, and
at last when business presses each to his task
they bid each other well, and return to their
own sphere.

And somewhere, the sun begins to slowly sink
and like rain-letts of drop-lets of the finest
web-spun silks of spiders and silk-worms
chosen with more care than any other single
task, begins the light to feather its way
through a tall, thin, tall, tower triangular
and yet

And the light is for a moment stopped, but then
crawls its way up to the top, spinning its silken
beauty with glowing care.

And night falls, and lights replace the small
bits of sunlight that still cling to its shadow.


The people dance and sing, and wondrous is the
light that pours in, and the music from any
orchestra at hand, or even full philharmonic.

And people view art works wondrous and bizarre.

And exhausted they rest.

But the music, the air, the light all pull them
up again, and again, and again they whirl,
and fly through the air across dance floors.

And old men sit at their table and argue politics
and social order and reform and representation.
And young women join in the discussion as well.

And old women sit at their table and talk of
children, grand, and great-grand.  And young
men come up and ask their grand-daughters to

And the very air seems filled with a gossimer
lightness of a world a thousand years young.

Of ages past and remembered, and of dust of
those days still hanging in the air like
the magical dust of pixies who cast their
spell on all.

And the young become wise with years and
discuss and debate with their elders, and
the elders are outraged and encouraged that
their young have such spirit and life within

And the night begins to become late, and a few
drift off home, but many young and old still
dance and occasionally make fools of themselves
as every person is want to do.  And in theatres
and opera houses people now come out and find
their way down cascading streets to find a place
to drink and sup and discuss what they have

But, comes the cockrell's crow -- in the still
of the night.

And they dance continue,
and laugh and tell, and talk,
out into the street they go each to sleep and
wait and

a few
stay behind and wish and want and some dreamily
talk of new worlds and new wonders and then at
last comes

the final crowing of the rooster, quietly announcing
the dawn of yet
another day of the city of light.

   Chopin:  Concerto No 2 in F Major
   -- Samson Francois
      Louis Fremaux conducting the
      Monte-Carlo Opera Orchestra

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