Wandering the backstreet of time
No end, no beginning,
You can hear the echoes
Of the past, the conquerors come and gone,
The plagues, the wars, the famines,
The cries of laughter, the tears of sorrow,
The prayers and confessions,
The good times and the bad.
You can see the people, the generations of them,
Crammed into small apartments
Living their hopes, their dreams, their desperation,
Their resignation, their struggles
As the years, the centuries, pass.
In that narrow street
Where light and shadow pattern the walls
All is silence
Only my footsteps to be heard
Until they too reach the journey’s end.