Some cities refuse to die

Some cities don't die.
They refuse to.
It just appears
to be dying,
in permanent decay.
This small town
I was born in,
its one of those.

The air is
heavy here,
each whiff
filled with
memories.

The decay is
forever here;
crumbling walls,
many lakes-
vestiges
of ancient Kingdoms-
names,temples,
forts
fading into
obscurity.

Unlike big cities,
children still play
cricket here.
Football is an outsider.
Dialects, people,
weather, predicaments
refuse to change.
The decay set in
long, long back.
So long,
nobody can trace
how long.

The city I was
born in
refuses to die.
It appears elegiac
when Sun sets in
evenings on
one of the many lakes.

A beautiful breeze
filled with music
reverberates
through each night,
refusing to die.