Ruins I see a building stroked by neglect, kissed by moss for years. I see families bags of the past abandoned departing for shores further. I see iron ripping through the concrete, the walls criss-crossing cracks. Ruin Inevitable ruin. When the future arrives the past has to leave. It is the way. They still see silks on the floors, swords on the walls, the glory of the past glistening still in the overgrown garden, the broken down kitchen. They talk of shining spheres hanging from the rafters where pigeons roost now golden orbs bought from foreign lands. We leave, pride in their eyes holding on, holding on to what is no more. We leave, pictures of ruins in my lenses crumbling, fading sepia.