It had been years since I had left home . . .
Having a love for roaming alone,
Walking along the cobblestones,
An “old soul” reminiscing about long ago.
The bow window and the park below,
With trees of yellow, red and gold,
The literature carved into the stone,
The view of the chateau at the top of the road.
The rain could pour and the wind could blow,
With a chill in the air that’s icy cold,
That couldn’t take away its beauty though,
So many unknown stories that the city holds,
Every street with a tale of its own to be told.
There is a beauty to behold in the mystery of the old,
In the lives of people, that we will never know.