Buried Origin These ancient Street their history shall keep, Where lamps of hope and yearnig never sleep. Cries in their Works, within their memory, In statues telling tales of ancient glory. The blood of innocents, onces bound in chains, In towns a daring leader broke their pains. How much of misery has the eye beheld? Where is the justices for the uncompelled? From carrying the rocks along the way, To bearing doubts of fate’s cruel display. You dress in elegance but live…
