It Rains Over the Dead City

The rain poured itself upon the cement world, falling and rolling into gutters and sewers, pooling up into puddles full of mud. No one was alive anymore. The deserted streets were visited only by the rain.

He stood, what was left of him, the founder, a statue. Cement and stone was all that was left. His likeness stood, a giant towered over by the skyscrapers of his great, dead city. No voiced praised or cursed him, only the rain sounded, beating their drums.

Everyone was dead, but the books remained. The library waited, pregnant with history, but the damned city was dead.

1 Comment

  1. Very powerful. An irony requires two parts, I suppose, but you have made a three-part irony: A giant . . . towered over by skyscrapers . . . in a dead city. Wonderful! Nice in other elements, as well, perhaps especially that library.

    Liked by 1 person

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