Grand City, Old City
Dust settles onto the site under construction. The board outside reads National Monument Authority, and the blue hoards hiding the broken building from the traffic remain as clean as the monuments the Authority is protecting.
Million faces cross the dusty area, not one holding any life, only memories. The entire city is a collection of old age and memories, and liveliness seems to another. It's an old city, a grand intimidating city. Wide path, big trees, big monuments and big egos, but where is hope?
I wondered what kind of people came to this city. My city, I knew people with glamorous dreams came there, another place I lived, people with a lot of brains came there, but about this old city? Who comes here and for what? I went there to go across it to another more peaceful silent place.
I see the residents and there's no hope in any eyes, you could see hope everywhere else, not here. Not in the old grand city with architecture so beautiful it dates back to ages and dead people. Death and red seem predominant in that old city. Red is an aura that holds the city, the fort is red, the spit on every road, the eyes of the strangers, the danger and threat felt in every strange place. All red. I was wearing red.
I had fallen in love with this heating city a long time ago, with its cleanliness and its charm, but winter does hide the ageing cracks. Dust and old age were all I found this time, like an old grandmother with her red woolen sweaters and her graying hair, full of grand gestures and stories but dust comes out every sneeze.
I'm pretty sure the stories in this old city are a plenty, but are they stories with hope or only bloodied death? Its not like everyone is polite or knows how to smile here, but everything holds the charm that seems dead for over a century.
Its city with a dead charm, a charm all the same, but a dead one.
Million faces cross the dusty area, not one holding any life, only memories. The entire city is a collection of old age and memories, and liveliness seems to another. It's an old city, a grand intimidating city. Wide path, big trees, big monuments and big egos, but where is hope?
I wondered what kind of people came to this city. My city, I knew people with glamorous dreams came there, another place I lived, people with a lot of brains came there, but about this old city? Who comes here and for what? I went there to go across it to another more peaceful silent place.
I see the residents and there's no hope in any eyes, you could see hope everywhere else, not here. Not in the old grand city with architecture so beautiful it dates back to ages and dead people. Death and red seem predominant in that old city. Red is an aura that holds the city, the fort is red, the spit on every road, the eyes of the strangers, the danger and threat felt in every strange place. All red. I was wearing red.
I had fallen in love with this heating city a long time ago, with its cleanliness and its charm, but winter does hide the ageing cracks. Dust and old age were all I found this time, like an old grandmother with her red woolen sweaters and her graying hair, full of grand gestures and stories but dust comes out every sneeze.
I'm pretty sure the stories in this old city are a plenty, but are they stories with hope or only bloodied death? Its not like everyone is polite or knows how to smile here, but everything holds the charm that seems dead for over a century.
Its city with a dead charm, a charm all the same, but a dead one.
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