The concrete sleeps, a heavy, fractured beast,
Where iron rusts and scattered fragments rest.
We walked as ghosts upon its weary spine,
Blind to the fading of the boundary line.
Until we held the waking glass to night,
And cast a sudden, geometric light.
It does not show the roads where empires cross,
But paints the quiet corners of our loss.
A scar of stone, a hollow, broken shell—
To name the wound is just to cast a spell.
But bending down to sweep the ashes clear?
That is the rhythm that the ground can hear.
No trumpets sound when shattered things mend whole,
Just silent ink upon an unseen scroll.
A stranger’s footstep, falling in our trace,
Nods to the phantom keeper of the space.
We do not conquer with a blade or fire,
But with the patience of a mending wire.
The grid remembers who has kept the flame,
And whispers, to the streets, the healer’s name.