Rushing, running on your way
With loud and boisterous sounds,
Stopping nowhere, no matter the time…
You are static
From high above.
A constellation of twinkling lights
And slow moving torches
In complete silence.
All rooftops are the same.
All roads are mere winding lines.
There are no people.
And year after year
There are only structures erected
At some height from the ground-
Marks and stains of human life.
They are right who say that
“Things change from high above.”
Life slows and sounds cease to be.
And hush now, O City, proud and wide:
You are but a slow moving
Near static constellation.