"Boulevard of Broken Dreams"A Poem by PoeT4994
A depiction of the "shadows" that are allegedly imprinted into the suroundings of Hirishima. They say that the blast from Enola Gay burnt images of it's victims into their surroundings.
They say that when they dropped Enola Gay on Hiroshima, it transformed everything.
They say glass melted like lava, metal ran like rivers.
They say colors rainbowed across the surface of whatever it came by.
Except for the occupied spots.
They say in Hiroshima, shadows of people were burnt into their surroundings.
The last thing they were doing was stamped into society for eternity.
And I hear that the shadows still reside amongst the streets.
But the part that gets me, I hear, that if you catch them, at a certain time of night...you can witness the shadows jump to life.
I hear the shadows are really souls, that serve as reminders to the world what ignorance can do.
And I hear that the souls, don't believe they're dead.
As the clock ticks to midnight and the last doors closes, the shadows step off of the wall.
They lift from the ground, as if awakening from comas.
But these angels don't know that they're supposed to be in heaven.
So every night they come back, trying to live their lives as they should've been.
They leap like flames from candles.
They paint paths with skips.
Children play hop-scotch with their teeth.
Mothers hang their skin out to dry, and hope that one night, they'll mold back to it's original form.
They say that ever since the walls faded, at night, you can see artists trying to repaint the city velvet with the blood of their children.
That rivers flow.
The only salt water rivers around.
The salty tears, the tears that have dripped from hearts for years to come.
They say that the shadows are still trying to rebuild.
They try to raise their world from ashes as if their streets are pheonix's.
Blank bodies creep like whispers around the streets.
Still shaking their heads, wondering.
Wondering when their world would sprout back from the ground, when the buildings will conform like trees.
But, these souls still drift, night after night.
Fading still, since the day they were hit.
I don't know when they'll rest.
But they say, if you catch them at the right time, right before five am, before the first door opens, you can hear them singing.
That their words imprint to the city.
And it glows, as bright as the day the bomb shined through their bones.
And then turns pitch black, like the ash that fell around them, right before the sun sets.
I've never been to Hirishima, but sometimes, I listen closely in the dead of night.
And along side the ear wrenching sound of a bomb siren, I can hear "I walk this empty street, on the boulevard of broken dreams. When the city sleeps, and we're the only ones and we walk alone."
© 2010 PoeT4994