By 17yr. old Eoin Moore
The thick clouds cover up the moonlight, but the
city’s lights provide worthwhile illumination – above them all, the beacon
burns bright atop the monolithic podium, signaling to wayfaring voyages the
ancient Viking settlement. Now, where Norsemen once stood, I look back,
along the quays, streets and alleys, to where the inhabitants live their lives:
eating, speaking, and breathing their city into existence. It gives me
cause to wonder, as I stroll aimlessly along the cobbled paths, about those who
have traversed them before me, by carriage or before there were even cobbles to
walk upon. I feel their lives and mine are somehow connected, that we all
were at one point a part of this city, living pieces of its grand, striking
framework. Every High King and scholar, every playwright and poet, every
politician and every rebel, every merchant, student, and busker who ever set
foot in the city holds or held onto a chunk of this city’s soul; every one of
them stepped to the city’s heartbeat. I listen to the streets at night
and I can feel the city’s lifeblood pumping through me; I can feel myself
flowing through it. All of us who travel those arteries step on the
words, actions, and lives of those who traveled them before us. The city
embodies the people, and the people embody the city.
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