It must be the last winding cobbled road
In all of the city

It weaved in and out of old stone houses
Built long before there was any pattern
Or structure to the town's layout

Rarely these modern days
Was its surface graced by human feet

Its lampposts were still gas lit
Though who maintained them
I could not say

As it surely wasn't the city

Nestled away tight and narrow
As the European cities of old

The cobblestone path
Bared no resemblance
To the wide macadamized streets

Of the ever burgeoning city
Which has all but forgotten

This old and sacred place
Where the lonesome memories
Of distant ages yet linger