City park as a house book. As soon as the yellowed sheets are touched, the city will begin to dump its stories with enthusiasm. They will be written in calligraphic handwriting with classic curls, imitating the era, or chopped pen strokes, in accordance with the directives of the time. With crafty boasting, they will hoist glorious citizens on a pedestal or, like skeletons in a closet, hide their obscene acts in the shadow of distant alleys. His trees whisper past rumors, ponds keep silent secrets, and swarms of pigeons sweep dried leaves from the tracks like dust from a book cover. And the longer you stay in the park, the more you understand that time puts everything in its place, passions disappear and only heaven and silence patronize the living, contemplating the earthly vanity from above. Such a city park in Vienna. Translated with Google Translate