crumbled grey bricks litter the streets
as sunlight persists through the cracks left in walls
vestiges of histories come and gone.
In the center of this city
there is a well,
deep, stricken with black water.
Once, it was clean,
azul, bluer than the
it lies dormant,
forgotten, shed long ago
much like the lives which
once served as the
heartbeat for this city.
Heartbeats which once together,
lay in the night,
whispering in their native tongue
words filled with passion,
with caring, with love.
Words which lit their bodies on fire
and inspired midnight dances
behind closed doors.
Dances which lasted until the sunlight once again
crept through the cracks in their imperfect walls,
dances which carried on until the dawn of today,
if even only by ghostly remnants of their
For it is sometimes ghosts of the past
which carry on their work through us,
trapped in the soul of another,
forever fighting their way back
to the love of yesterday,
never giving up hope until
they too, are once again hidden behind closed doors,
dancing a delicate tango
embraced by the one with whom
they found solace
so many many moons ago.