It is the year where sky forgot blue,
Where trees are myths and grass untrue.
Cities stretch like steel-born gods,
But hearts inside beat with no odds.

Clones walk straighter than men once did,
Smiling soft with secrets hid.
They do not lie, they do not bleed—
Perfect servants to human greed.

No prayers now, no gods to call,
Just neon faith on a digital wall.
Churches are bars, mosques are screens,
Hope sold in pixelated dreams.

Rain falls black, with silver tint,
As if the sky forgot to rinse.
But still, it falls—gift or guilt?
A mercy from a heaven spilt.

The air is cold, but not from snow,
From silence, smoke, and things we know:
That love is rare, and trust extinct,
And touch is just a nervous link.

And me?
I walk the ashlight street,
My feet the last to feel this beat.
No god, no green, no truth to find—
Just broken stars in humankind.

They whispered that he was alone because he had to be,
that some creatures are too wild to stay,
too restless to belong.

But the wolf remembers…
the warmth of the fire,
the weight of a world that once welcomed him.
And he knows now: it wasn’t his wildness they feared,
but the way he saw through the shadows.

The wolf knows better.
The howl was never a warning,
never a call for chaos—
but a song for the lost,
a promise that no one walks alone.

So he left them in their silence,
turned his voice to the moon,
where the lonely still listen,
where the echoes do not twist—
but repeat the truth,
for those ready to hear it.