The Castle of Edinburgh

Edinburgh has its own overpowering giant soaring over every street, lane or alley. It protrudes like a menacing dark shape of stone during the day, especially if the wind draws enormous clouds past its battlements and turrets. One tends to believe such formations in the sky were actually exhaled by the monster to shroud the city under its dominion.
Nothing remains unseen by the ever-vigilant eyes framed in its square windows, and no matter how loud the windpipes may sound in the busy Royal Mile, no matter how many Japanese women may squeak their laughter around me, the surveillance of the castle is never off guard.
Later on, as the town slowly comes to a halt and the sun sets naively behind the hills, the birthplace of King James I blasts into yellow. A sudden metamorphosis of light that will last until my eyes open again in the morning. A shudder makes me gasp beyond my will: Is the radiance of the castle due to a daily kidnapping of the sun, which is taken prisoner as the French soldiers once were? A disquieting thought indeed.
Only one childbirth in its Royal Rooms over five hundred years of history cannot dispel the burden of hundreds of deaths, murders and beheadings which dyed the castle stone slabs with the final blood of so many men.
The fortress is darkness by day and light by night, while the rest of the metropolis struggles to bring out spasms of beauty and green parks as a token to freedom from the overwhelming threat that the stronghold mercilessly casts upon it.