The Backstreet


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.

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