In the bruise of neon twilight,
do you hear the murmurs of fallen titans?
Our weary hands hold forgotten keys
to rusted kingdoms of hope and decay.

We reforge legends in alleyway sermons,
where ancient echoes meet the hiss of rain -
fables of sunken gods and exiled warriors,
whispered between shattered, heartfelt beats.

Have you tasted the bitter lips of revolt,
the raw nectar of midnight confessions?
In these rain-soaked streets, truth is a bruised bloom,
unfurling amid broken glass and smudged lore.

Fathers rasp secrets from battered concrete,
while mothers dissolve in industrial shadows

our pulse, a ragged hymn echoing
through streets carved by forgotten revelries.

We huddle beneath a fractured moon,
where graffiti speaks the language of rebellion,
and every scar in the city is a stanza
in our relentless, aching poem of survival.

Grant us a stolen hour
to celebrate wild, desperate art
to clutch the tender flames of our revolt,
even as we wade through urban ashes
in defiant, hopeless grace.