(no subject)
Walking the streets of the old city
Morning breeze welcomes you.
The sunrise guides you to the old man’s bakery;
Miles away you can smile it, you cam almost taste it
Your footsteps quicken, your heart is racing
Right to the patio where the bread is waiting;
Out of the brick oven, warm and fresh.
Every piece is a story, every bite is a poem.
The burning wood, the flames of the old oven;
The birds hovering around hunting for leftovers;
The old woman whistling;
The crowd’s humming and sipping coffee;
The quite wind blowing sweeping the leaves
Carrying an invitation to where we stood.
All but an orchestra between man and nature.
Old man smelling, like flour and wheat, waves you farewell
When you are out on your way,
Walking the streets of the old city.
Now it is but an old memory to tell
A story to share and image to pass,
About the old man who once stood there
And a shadow of an oven long gone.
Walking the streets of the old city,
Cars horns and vehicle fumes welcome you.
Clouds of smoke of a nearby factory blind your way.
Smell of wasted gas and running engines,
Dust, mud and broken glass pave your way.
Visions of billboards and lights,
Images and faces of strangers,
A young man in a clean uniform,
Waves you to stop until your turn comes.
There is no background music, only noise.
But you struggle on, walking toward it,
A massive shop where the old bakery once stood.
Smell of food and coffee, maybe sweets too
A small window with an old man inside.
Passing bags filled with cold bread with no smell
Waving the car to move one so the next will par,
Under the narrow window where the old man stands.
Some are inside behind walls of metal and glass, sheltered
From all the cloud, noise and dust, from the city.
You glance to sky with wonder and a smile
Where a bird hovering around, in sorrow and pity,
Waving for you farewell
Walking the streets of the old city.
Morning breeze welcomes you.
The sunrise guides you to the old man’s bakery;
Miles away you can smile it, you cam almost taste it
Your footsteps quicken, your heart is racing
Right to the patio where the bread is waiting;
Out of the brick oven, warm and fresh.
Every piece is a story, every bite is a poem.
The burning wood, the flames of the old oven;
The birds hovering around hunting for leftovers;
The old woman whistling;
The crowd’s humming and sipping coffee;
The quite wind blowing sweeping the leaves
Carrying an invitation to where we stood.
All but an orchestra between man and nature.
Old man smelling, like flour and wheat, waves you farewell
When you are out on your way,
Walking the streets of the old city.
Now it is but an old memory to tell
A story to share and image to pass,
About the old man who once stood there
And a shadow of an oven long gone.
Walking the streets of the old city,
Cars horns and vehicle fumes welcome you.
Clouds of smoke of a nearby factory blind your way.
Smell of wasted gas and running engines,
Dust, mud and broken glass pave your way.
Visions of billboards and lights,
Images and faces of strangers,
A young man in a clean uniform,
Waves you to stop until your turn comes.
There is no background music, only noise.
But you struggle on, walking toward it,
A massive shop where the old bakery once stood.
Smell of food and coffee, maybe sweets too
A small window with an old man inside.
Passing bags filled with cold bread with no smell
Waving the car to move one so the next will par,
Under the narrow window where the old man stands.
Some are inside behind walls of metal and glass, sheltered
From all the cloud, noise and dust, from the city.
You glance to sky with wonder and a smile
Where a bird hovering around, in sorrow and pity,
Waving for you farewell
Walking the streets of the old city.