Drops of History

It’s midnight on Gower Street— 
The rain’s still pattering 
Against these broken, ancient windows 
That once held pieces of history. 

Each droplet slips down, 
Searching for worlds, 
It can no longer reach. 
Amalgamating instead with 
The rusty-brown filaments 
That cling on like sarcophagi 
To these empty glass pieces. 

Holding tight to my scarlet red mass-made scarf, 
I think about the silent colours, 
These tainted windows are trying to bleed out. 
The pastels, the brush strokes– 
Will they ever paint the lost worlds alive again?