The history was palatable,
From the grass tucked between the cobbled streets,
to the cold faces of men
scribed onto the Minister walls.
It wasn't the first time that men managed to clamber onto
history through the labour 
of other men.
The toil of forgotten souls who
spent days carving cold stone,
only for those inside to look
to the sky in search of theirs.

     Friendly voices would echo against the cavernous walls of the Minister,
thousands of hours etched into sounds that would leap out onto the ears of eager-minded travellers.
     "The word for apple is also the word for fruit in Latin",
beckoned one of the more lively tour guides,
another simple mistake that had managed to perch itself within culture for centuries.
Decades of musical references at once dispelled by a tentative historian,
his only hope be that more people spread the same message.
  Upon entering,
One of the Fathers would utter words 
in a moment of prayer,
people would sit in silence,
returning to childhood experiences when
older people were the voice of reason,
all of whom were looking for one small 
moment to let go of responsibilities
and forget the family sat next to them,
most of whom were dependent on their strength
and guidance.
    As the train drifted downwards,
the constraints would slowly fall back into position,
an unexplored city now less enigmatic,
a string of kind people 
and good coffee
to thank.