There is an ancient city,
buried deep in bone,
where, on the ramparts, shivers
a sentinel alone—
Blue-lipped and hunched,
they don a crooked helmet,
hot breath a fleeting cloak
for cheeks, chapped and earnest.
With stiff limbs dressed
in dented, brittle armor,
all night they fight
the long-blink with valor.
Beneath each black-inked sky,
they’ll watch, they’ll persist;
though, would that they could rest,
they—no, they must resist!
For they were born first,
the eldest and the heir,
and borne inherent is the vigil,
a shield without a spare.
Thus, they will stand guard,
o’er the young ones, heedful
that they might sleep safe,
tucked in bed, peaceful.
We are the ancient city,
buried in our bones
where, on the ramparts, shivers
a sentinel alone—
Oct 24, 2025
Oct 24, 2025 at 8:36 PM UTC
There is an ancient city,
buried deep in bone,
where, on the ramparts, shivers
a sentinel alone—
Blue-lipped and hunched,
they don a crooked helmet,
hot breath a fleeting cloak
for cheeks, chapped and earnest.
With stiff limbs dressed
in dented, brittle armor,
all night they fight
the long-blink with valor.
Beneath each black-inked sky,
they’ll watch, they’ll persist;
though, would that they could rest,
they—no, they must resist!
For they were born first,
the eldest and the heir,
and borne inherent is the vigil,
a shield without a spare.
Thus, they will stand guard,
o’er the young ones, heedful
that they might sleep safe,
tucked in bed, peaceful.
We are the ancient city,
buried in our bones
where, on the ramparts, shivers
a sentinel alone—
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