The voices would remain. Trembling in the dells of moss-washed cobblestones yearning to be heard but not understood more than a silhouette of sound. Their bodies would withdraw behind stained glass windows which filter any sinner’s gaze (else why are churches robed in them?). The street’s throb would fade as one does hold one’s breath in the alcoves of an unbeating heart. Birds would flit & freeze into telling time that has long drifted from the connotation of moments. Their plumes would carry the scent of their songs & you will draw closer to me for music is heard best when hearts are tuned. Hounds would quieten their dreams & fill their being with the scent of us.
We will walk through these streets. These abandoned streets filled with the echoes of life returning from the valleys of unremarkable common. These streets that witness not frightening miracles & hence, dared to wear the garb of predictable journeys. These streets where each step is to somewhere yet unpaved to all the memories left behind. We walk through these streets filling each stone with swell & sigh.
As we walk past doors bolted from within by a prayer, as we walk past water spouts stuttering in dry spurts, as we walk past once-loved daisies on the road, they will speak of us. They will burn in the heat of my thumb caressing your skin. They will be whipped as your curls slither over my shoulder. They will be crushed under the weight of our every rhythmic step. They will taste the sins unborn as you lick your lips before smiling. The air will wet itself on your moist mouth & carry tales to oceans yonder. Yes, the air, too, will speak of us. Every newborn child will recognise in their final years of an eclipse once that walked through the street of their birth & how every unknowing soul looked upon us & said, “Perhaps, they are lovers!”