Though the candles heart does burn bright,

Though the bawling wax slithers down the shaft,

One may come to wonder who may be in town,

Fresh up on a crisp autumn’s twilight.

Doth a leaf fall and hit thee,

striding through the cobblestone streets,

When in present of a bitter breeze,

Thou maketh the most of what thou can breath.

He schleps an umbrella within his hands,

in case of yet it’s to become a tearful night.

One’s heels more over, the base of his mahogany brown leather shoes.

Which clipped along the hard materialistic floor, that leads up to the door,

Art one may say that has been engraved,

Following through to a classical Victorian book shop’s room.

He, who runs his finger along each individual broken spine,

Does come to realise at any certain time,

One’s life has it’s own story to be aligned …