I have walked these streets before,
Unseen hands etched time and lore.
Cogs turned where the rafters spun,
And morning melted into sun.

A ghost of chalk, a breath, a trace
Each climb a mark, each hold a place.
Through layered climbs that softly grow,
The past aligns with what I know.

The roof spoke lines of light and grace,
Where AM dreams and PM race.
Steps now move where silence stayed,
In echoes bold, the beams cascade.

The depot stands with arms out wide,
Where time and space in rhythm glide.
Not relic, no, but pulse and climb,
A keeper of breath, of hands, of time.