I woke up in the middle of the night.
In a time that does not exist.
I quietly made my way to the window.
And I peeked outside
to see what is forbidden for our sight.
My street was alive.
Shadows and bright creatures walked around.
They carried big and heavy buckets in their hands.
And where ever each of them decided
They stopped and spilled all that was inside.
They left the street filled with puddles.
And I was taken back to the time that exists
And I saw only empty street –
All that we are allowed to see.
In the morning.
When I went outside,
I stopped in the middle of my street.
Puddles were all around me.
I looked and listened to the stories left in them.
Stories spilled by our souls
While we were fast asleep in our homes.
Some of them where large and hard to avoid,
So pedestrians just stumped through.
Took some of it with them.
Left it shallower than it used to be…
Other one was brutally driven through
by huge heavy wheels of busses and cars.
This puddle was splashed against the walls.
And there was smaller one –
where two children played.
Giggling, splashing and jumping
in brightly colored boots.
An other one –
more hidden from the view.
There an older man was kneeling down.
He washed his hands in there
And no one saw.
And no one cared.
People walked around.
They carried their thoughts neatly packed in boxes.
And all they saw was busy street
filled with puddles made by rain.
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