Black-Grey-White Memory

Grey winding roads make an entrance to an old and archaic bridge massive. Granite monuments grow bigger as we walk toward their frozen postures. People with cameras and full of thoughts. The sky is ash grey with small dips of clouds in undetectable color. Yet some birds fly over its limitless horizon. When we look down, we see the river nursing things of human and nature that become livelier as ever. Thousands of white swans are looking different directions, their heads run in the frozen water in and out. For me it would be more like reaching towards the hand of the death, but for them it is the way of getting the living out of the murky waters. Some are holding against the current, but some have found more peaceful places along the island and people-built retreat. They seem to be holding like bouquet, but not all belong to bevy of swans. They are at least couple of them being alone, some up to the putrid wood, some just alone by themselves, floating and looking towards the horizon. And I am looking at you. Why do swans like to look around so much? Because they are bewildered or sense the danger?

Walking further, the scene adds new elements. Some people now can be seen more like broken swans. They are bent from the knees towards the sky for forgiveness, I would like to believe, but the reason is more material. The wind is rushing through their old torn clothes, yet they stand still same as the monuments on the bridge.

Further we walk, the more steepness or legs feel. An old cobble drone beneath the step weight and transport. Small houses lurk in the street edges. More markets filled with small handmade trinkets. My hand rushes through the metal Christmas snowflakes. The holidays are yet to come, but I am already in mine. Further up we go, the more irresistible is the sweet smell of hot wine. My hands embrace the small plastic cup. It is so full that you cannot go further otherwise the vivid dark-red liquid would start interblend with the cobble. Sweet warmth fills our insides, like a fuel to go further though the old winter paradise. The preserved time shift made it possible to be walking the same steps as kings, queens and servants transports you few centuries ago. In arches concealed small bits of stained glass flicker in thousand different shades. People in lines burst with talks and impatience grows bigger to the ones that see big door mass just as a tiny point in the universe.

Getting down is much lighter as you can lift your legs higher reaching towards the down. Shadows of the evening are lurking in the corners of the streets. How would it be to pass a hospital where people are just having their limbs cut down in a disastrous brutality. Their cries would be something that would haunt through the deepest sleep. Such a horror in the eyes of a doctor. Maybe you could meet a ghost sneaking through the smallest streets and up to their assassination places. Non-believers without heads on ghostly horses running through the city squares, hoping that someone would catch their breath and feel their injustice. People are rushing too fast to

notice those signs of the past. As long as you are not killed, the city is full of other noises. Guides are welcoming anyone to get to know the city more; couples are carelessly kissing in the middle of streets. I am looking over them towards the clock of the century. The gold glimmers, uncovering different zodiac signs. There is no rust to stop the time. Yet I do stop just to watch the time tick away.

More and more people strive towards bars and other houses to meet their needs. I feel the wind playing behind my ear. Lights grow bigger and frozen dips of ice tart falling from the sky. Trolleys race through the white-tanned streets. Crackles from the wires lighten up in the dark sky. For a moment I feel you shivering, but somehow the cold eases. Perhaps it does to the lonely people on the streets, raising hands as worshipers. We are not lonely. Not today. The dark city shapes has become white with pleasant calmness.