We shed our skins in twilight’s hush,
Our scars like constellations blush.
The city’s heart begins to rush,
As change descends with fever’s flush.
Through crowded streets we weave and wind,
Our former selves left far behind.
For some grand cause, we’ve been conscribed,
Though doubts still linger in our mind.
.
In parks once green, now ashen gray,
We rest our bones at close of day.
The world’s turned inside out, they say,
Yet here, like statues, we must stay.
.
The Thames runs red with setting sun,
The Ganges’ holy waters run
With echoes of what we’ve begun—
A revolution’s thread unspun.
.
Our songs grow faint, our voices thin,
As moonlight paints our pallid skin.
The natural order wears so thin:
Cats growl, dogs coo—the world’s chagrin.
And that lark who once sang at dawn,
Now heralds twilight’s creeping spawn.
The eclipse approaches, light withdrawn—
What rises once the dark has gone?