Those who are born with roses in their eyes..
The beauty of the metropolis they will behold
Deaf to the city’s breathless sighs,
and the melancholic wailing of the bulwarks
left dying along with the palace’s innards.
A cold, black floor is the bed of the reality
The suffocated tree- the roof the city can provide.
And though blue collars roam the streets daily,
it is the songs of cars that is our lullaby.