In the East
On a calm summer's eve I found myself in the North End,
Winding through the labyrinth of aged cobblestone
As the air quivered with the action of humanity.
Encompassed by sight and sound I walked,
Possessed by the energy of centuries that effused from the city.
Before a dilapidated building I came to rest,
The brown bricks weary under Time's pressure.
A distant glint called me upward,
To the faded white letters
Overlapped and retread over endless decades.
In the layers of withering paint there is life,
A record of man's achievements
Starkly emblazoned on the resolute surface of mortar and stone.
Turning away from the dusty facade
I see people, churning and rushing,
Grasping after those fleeting moments of meaning
That so endlessly drive our existence.
My solemn mind wonders if they ever find that treasure,
The contentment that is praised in dusty recollections of the past.
The orange glow of cast iron street lamps gives me warmth,
Reassuring me of the vibrance in this world
As the golden dome of Faneuil Hall
Refracts its civility into our hardened hearts,
So burdened by the passing seconds
Which drip into infinity without pause.
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