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.