Where are the alleys of my youth?
Those alleys where the babbling brooks once sang,
winding and strange.
What has become of the marble,
Upon which the dust of wars has settled,
grey and dull?
What has become of the young love,
that we came across in the old house of vulnerability,
warm and spirited?
Hissing, tear gas and
cigarette smoke pushes
and I lost sight of you.
The old houses are no longer there.
Now they are full of indifferent strangers.
I no longer recognise you.
