Music of the Cobbles

(I)

Slender beauties gracefully walk in high heels
Thrumming ecstasies in the bricks and surrounds
Mesmerizing thousands of eyes into racy follies
That scream under wheels as dead-stoned cobbles

(II)

I hear the rustle of dry leaves crawling on blocks

Voices of the goers, rising and fading and gone
Giggling benchers echoing unevenly yet clear
Grumbling tyres climbing unending patterns
Of packed dark cobble-stoned roads of Europe

These remind me of similar roads of old Calcutta

Only that there its much more crowded and noisy
Leaves stamped by pedestrians and lazy vehicles
Their screams overshadowed by the screeches
Their lot insignificant and lost in the multitude

(III)

Whoever lives on these roads, wherever be these
The noise and irregularity sediments over years
As a regular pattern in life, an unnoticed rhythm
Striking a chord to the unknown and the unaware

(IV)

This is not where the story ends, but here it begins

I start musing over the building blocks, of life
As a matrix of people, moments, dreams and hardships
Connected by destiny, gathered in frames of time

(V)

With the approach of twilight I hear them livened

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Author Note "Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."