The sound of the footsteps,

Thum.. Thum.. Thum..

On the ruined street I stand on,

Watching the few people who cross by me,

And all those others who at once look at me,

Find me dreadful,

And the street deserted,

Hence recount their steps,

And walk away.

I’m dreadful,

Not my fault, I must say.

Ask that artist!

Who created me.

Ask those butchers!

Who for earning a bit of money,

Destructed me.

Ask those bureaucrats,

Who never cared for me.

But I’m here,

Hearing the sound of the footsteps,

But I know looking at me,

Only those few would cross me.

I am indeed, have indeed,

Become the ghost.

I’m the old clay statue,

Of the once ruler,

Of the territory I belong to,

Who died,

Leaving me to live a wretched life,

And finally die as well.