Bylanes

There is only so much
you can say
about the old lanes
of a city suspended in time.
Balconies with broken cement
and exposed iron,
doors with colours
washed away with
regimes that came and went.
Somewhere you see
a yellowed fan spinning,
and from the streets washed
anew with rain,
you almost feel the breeze.
You wonder if
the occupants of these homes
are aware of the history
they inhabit.
Surely their lives must be
more exciting than ours?
You walk along
musing and contemplating,
choosing the tiniest lanes,
as if a cross section of seclusion
sequesters it from the rest of the world.
Do you secretly hope
to do the same?
You keep walking,
lost in a maze of narrow alleys.
And then you realize-
the deeper you go,
the less lost you feel.