This city is a graveyard

 

The scent of roasted cumin blends

with crushed cardamom,

to sounds of sizzling ghee.

I walk the rain-soaked concrete,

hearing laughter, seeing smiles of glee.

Saris and jewellery, colour, texture.

I bite down on the sweet square of barfi,

fizzing my senses as I walk these golden streets.

 

“This city is a cemetery”, or so some cry.

So many remains left buried.

Ghosts wander the pathways,

nothing good survives, old memories lie.

They decry that it is the delivery guy,

or the beggar sitting at the roadside.

They lie about the immigrants, the

cultural difference, claiming division.

I just think: What are you seeing?

This is a vibrant slice of life.

 

I wander the cobblestone lanes.

Peregrine falcons nesting for the night,

looming Cathedral spire glances down on me.

Guildhall standing crooked but proud,

as the moon hangs a tapestry of light,

wooden beams and history. I think:

I'm proud of this city. Where stories

have walked since the Romans

forged a path through the country.

 

“This city is a graveyard,” the naysayers proclaim,

filled with tombs where old memories remain.

Buried stories drift with the grain

of every torn page left to weather in the rain.

 

I think of the way a king

was found under a car parking space,

his place in history, a story fit for a king,

surely good enough for you and me?

And I think this isn't dead,

it's alive with mystery.

 

I pass the Clock Tower,

rife with crime at every hour,

according to the TikTok brigade.

Yet I see life meeting

and enjoying their time. Faces beaming,

not miserable and sour.

 

“This city is dead,” or so they shout,

feeding worms of doubt

with the hollow screams of lives unlived.

Decayed, a faded memory left to wither away.

Yet you haven't set foot here

in a decade or more, so how can you

see the beauty at our core,

when you stay from the light of day?

 

You miss every event, the social excitement,

the nighttime drinks, the daytime feasts,

the cultural exchanges of wonderful festivities.

The monumental moments of community

where we laugh, share,

and hold out hands that care,

loving instead of feigning despair.

Instead, you fester at home in bed,

writing angry posts about how our city is dead.