Archive of Yellow Afternoons

Tuck away at the corner near a low wall an aging wheelers stall goes back into languid days unfolding, A wall clock somewhere strikes ten, sitting at the wooden bench, an old man staring lazily at the archive of yellow afternoons. Leaving him behind with a leather bag bursting at the seams with sad memories, imagine as if he is locked up from all sides. Crossing the empty platforms when does he know, time is up. The end of a journey he has never started.