Alone
People come and people go; always coming and always going. What are they supposed to do otherwise?
No one else knows of the secret.
As the crowds and sometimes trickles, jam packed and sometimes alone, flow through the emptiness, the silence, the deserted streets of my home, they all, all of them, remain ignorant and oblivious to the secret.
They don't know of the secret building.
They don't know of the secret room.
They don't know of me.
When the people come, I am the one traveling.
I hear their boisterous clutter - their murmurs, laughs, and feet.
I hear this, and I am the one traveling.
I make my own clutter in my secret building, in my secret room. I emerge from my loneliness, though loneliness it may not be, and travel to my secret window.
Not one of them ever sees my secret window.
Fine cracks trickle through it, and grime darkens it, but one spot always keeps clear for me. Through this secret spot, I see the people. They clutter and murmur and sing and laugh.
Would I laugh? If I were them?
No one else knows of the secret.
As the crowds and sometimes trickles, jam packed and sometimes alone, flow through the emptiness, the silence, the deserted streets of my home, they all, all of them, remain ignorant and oblivious to the secret.
They don't know of the secret building.
They don't know of the secret room.
They don't know of me.
When the people come, I am the one traveling.
I hear their boisterous clutter - their murmurs, laughs, and feet.
I hear this, and I am the one traveling.
I make my own clutter in my secret building, in my secret room. I emerge from my loneliness, though loneliness it may not be, and travel to my secret window.
Not one of them ever sees my secret window.
Fine cracks trickle through it, and grime darkens it, but one spot always keeps clear for me. Through this secret spot, I see the people. They clutter and murmur and sing and laugh.
Would I laugh? If I were them?