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We walk the streets of our cities, and leave traces, like shadows, of our passing lives, drifting over the cobbled stones.
So many traces on so many stones, all different, but all encapsulating the exhaling of human life.
Expiration dates. If stones could speak, they would whisper our last breath's hour.
They still do, though. Engraved in the language of rock, our weight grows more pressing, as the clock strikes over and over and over again, marking the passage of frail human life through timeless cities.
So many traces on so many stones, all different, but all encapsulating the exhaling of human life.
Expiration dates. If stones could speak, they would whisper our last breath's hour.
They still do, though. Engraved in the language of rock, our weight grows more pressing, as the clock strikes over and over and over again, marking the passage of frail human life through timeless cities.
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