As the morning sun peeks over the city
A sharp ear may detect a rushing sigh
Moving from rooftop to rooftop to rooftop.
A collective unrest; a depression, if you will.
It is as if the roofs themselves dread
The dawning of each new day, the silence,
As the same light of dawn strikes the cobblestones
Of the city's well-worn streets, however,
A different sound quickly overwhelms
The sadness of the rooftops.
It is a cacophony of laughter, a rising wave
Of joy, of comradeship, of excitement.
Each day brings a new story; a new beginning.
It is a sharp and overwhelming contrast
To the quiet monotony above.
And when, finally, the light
Of the same dawning day strikes
The rows upon rows upon rows of shoes
Lined up in halls, in entryways;
As tired feet slip into tired shoes,
One might detect a slight grumble
Each night, the silent rooftops dream
Of shoe-shod feet; the feet of travelers,
Of merchants, of housewives and children.
They ache to be trod, to be worn down