The feet that have walked this way
Lived a life full of,
Hopes and aspirations,
Ideas and thoughts,
Longings and desires.
For new things.
Skipped with the joy of childhood, kicking stones absorbed in their own game.
Jumped with the enlightenment of knowledge
Stomped in anger, at rejection and injustice.
Sauntered full of the intoxication of romance.
Marched to war, perhaps never to return?
Limped in pain with the scars of life.
Shuffled with the infirmities of age.
The feet that passed this way are gone now from memory.
Only in the groove and mirror like smoothness of ancient cobble stones,
Are they known.
Trogir is a place to truly wander and become gloriously lost. The town is small enough that being lost does not induce fear, rather a sense of curious excitement. Dawdling through the winding, ancient streets allows the time to reflect on their Venetian past. There is something quiet delightful about turning into an unexplored alleyway, only to find oneself covering a recently trod path. Retracing cobbled streets repeadly never becomes tiresome, because there is far too much for the senses absorb.