Oxford

It was introduced through someone else's eyes, but affected me like no other. A beauty that could not be grasped at first sight. Low clouds, with condescending watery vapor, floating in the atmosphere ever so hasty, directed by the insisting wind blows. The wild doves are so predictable cheering the early afternoon on in their usual soothing monotone coos. A few drops of rain at first, just when the gloomy cloud approaches so important, as to check if all was well in Oxford. As though a disappointed Nanny, showers down with a cold disapproving rain on my window cell. Yet, soon after, the sun peaks out, and the rooftops, which have seen so much already, suddenly basing in the warm rays of the forgiving light.

England

I feel the pain of your streets and see it in the stones of your glorious buildings. Silent cries and bitter longing for what you once were; what you represented, achieved, created and valued. Your reminiscence is your nostalgia. Even your commoners felt extraordinary here. You are left with a Mother, but an orphaned child... your monuments are there to woo the eye of an outlander who seldom sees how much you weep for your loss. Innate citizens quickly hide under their dark umbrellas as if to take refuge and shut away, pretending not to acknowledge surrounding lonesome and despair; 85% of them read the newspapers daily, while less than 2% may be found in church on Sunday (even though there are 16,000 incredible church buildings, and 13,000 parishes). But it's all obvious to me now, as clear as the London morning. You've planted a seed of void inside of me and I shall never forget, as it will live within, wherever I may roam.