In the corner of the city
the sound of noisy footsteps carving dust
weaving hope on the silent streets
small traders
their voices are swallowed by horns
looking for life amidst the hustle and bustle
and waves of concrete.
Tired faces
but eyes full of fire
bearing the burden of dreams
from morning to dusk
there is laughter tucked behind the wounds
embroidering dreams
even though the cloth is old.
But look!
In the cold tall buildings
rule those who do not care about the wind
that rolls sweat
into statistics
forgetting the humans behind the graphs.
Under the city lights
that never sleep
there are souls who fight fate
joking with the night
chatting with hope
life goes on
even though the pain is gaping.
This city
is the face of all of us
full of wounds
but never tired of believing
that behind the cracks
in the asphalt and concrete
there is hope rooted
in a land that is difficult to understand.
This poem depicts the suffering of people trapped in the hustle and bustle of a very cold and indifferent urban landscape. This phenomenon occurs all over the world. Therefore, I asked AI for help in creating a mental image for this poem without specifically referring to a country or city so that the social criticism remains universal and thus does not create a specific social inequality. Greetings, dear Seha76!
