a trip down the fields
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the power of III
Fight and fright and flight All at once Life never gives you A second route Hold it proudly Your three-pronged fork
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As I sit in my Madrid room pondering; flashes of my favourite part of Cairo fly by in my visual memory, I see the squares that have heard my shouts, the same squares that I have cleaned, holding a pitiful trash bag in one hand and gathering rubbish with the other gloved one. The same squares and streets that I have grown so accustomed to seeing them at Midnight with my father when I was young, that I couldn't walk the same streets twice in the daylight without losing my ways three times, at least. Me and my (ever changing) friends have seen lots of thing on those streets- done lots of things, I've seen a man screaming with a bleeding gash laying on the street once while surrounded by ragged men, he was stabbed. And it's not like I'm special, ask anyone who lives there, they've seen worse than me, probably lived through worse than me, if they truly grew up in those streets. But it's the city's centre, and if you're in your late teens and start of your ...
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