Red tram number 1034 squealed, accelerated, and, clattering its rims, bounced along the tracks after the blue 1822. Trailing behind the red one were the orange 1215, lemon 1210, lime green, blue, orange, and another blue tram. On the parallel tracks, the trams were somehow not going in the opposite direction as technical progress had once dictated, but alongside their neighbors.
The trams moved slowly, their wires drooping tiredly from their bodies, stamping out a soft metallic rhythm. There was something solemn and forbidding in their movement that even traffic lights dared not interrupt, yet at the same time, such a profound, heavy sorrow, melancholy, and grief emanated from the two long columns stretching to the horizon that both passersby and people in gray uniforms remained silent.
The large, dusty city, spoiled by modern technological marvels like the metro, stood in awe of this stern procession. The heated iron of the old, crude mechanisms clanged rhythmically, and the already gray sky became shrouded with clouds, blanketing it like a veil. At first tentatively, then more boldly, heavy drops began to drum on the rooftops. The water touched the windows and trickled down the sides in dirty streams, eventually reaching the warm asphalt.
The sky wept, and no one noticed how other tears started to mix with the rain—the tears of these clumsy, unnecessary trams. The rain washed over them, cleansing them of all the dirt of their past lives like sins, while they, proud and majestic, kept rolling forward, halting the city’s movement for who knows how long.
The trams traveled down the street. Shall they ever come back?
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