The Ghost of the Grand Bazaar
Ghost of the Grand Bazaar The scent of spices and teas Waft through the air. Sunlight pours through the stained glass, Fabrics of every type are draped in walkways. Merchants hawk their wares, Clawing at tourists like prey They are clueless, oblivious To the lone figure that wonders among them. Faceless. Nameless. Not who, rather a thing. It passes by without a sound, not bothering to glance At the sights. It has been greeted with the colors and sound every waking moment For the last century. The figure cannot say a thing, for it’s lips are sewed The figure is nothing but a fragment of the past, left behind. A hundred years ago, left to die on the streets of the Grand Bazaar. Not a soul stopped They knew who he was, what he had done. He became an it. Now he is bound to his fate, a century Of solitude among millions.
