Melbourne Candid Series #1053 Swanston St

 

He walks where the city forgets to dream,
Off Swanston’s pulse, in a side-street seam.
An old man carved from dusk and ache,
Thin as memory, too brittle to break.

Beret tilted like a wounded crown,
Eyes cast low, like the heavens frown.
Each step a whisper, each breath a thread,
The living ghost of a life half-dead.

In his hand—O fate!—a paper curled,
Tight as secrets that once rocked the world.
Is it a letter? A map? A name?
A poem never read, or a war’s last flame?

The trams don’t pause for men like this,
Worn to the bone by what they miss.
Yet still he moves, through wind and grime,
Dragging behind the weight of time.

No one sees him—just a blur,
Of beret, bones, and something sirred.
But somewhere deep, the city knows,
He walks with all its buried prose.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

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