Footsteps sore on the cobblestone hills,

The people captured here in stills,

Embedded in empire and peasant clocks 

Encrusted in the fruitful futile walks,

Entrusted to the paintings on flaking walls

Entwined among the hallowed halls,

Are more than what they

Lost themselves to,

More than Anger 

More than Who,

More than More

And more than that too,

The human mind has left here its hush

A forceful torch that has and always will

Burden us.