Old ruins


I look at
these old ruins
made up of
tattered bricks
crumbling mortar
and broken down
tumbling walls.

Locked within
are faint echoes
of countless
The sounds of
children playing
running feet
tinkling laughter.
Soldiers marching
women wailing
the sound of bugles
the clash of swords.

Countless men
and countless women
have lived and died
within these
soaring walls
Their lives
and their moments
long forgotten
faded into time.

And now
these ruins lie
in the baking sun,
dreaming of days
when life ran
helter-skelter in them.

But life has not yet
these fading
broken ruins.
Flowers bloom
in their jagged cracks,
bees hum
as they flit
from bud to bloom,
squirrels race
along the
stony paths,
and pigeons roost
on fallen rooftops.

And the old stones
smile gently
as they gaze upon
this vivid
vibrant mass,
and the ruins
sit content
amidst the dusty
waving grass.


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