Under the moon's silver cloak we stand,
Beneath the stars that twinkle with command.
A silent vigil for the world above,
A watchful eye from this bunker of love.

Ham radio crackles, static and sparse,
Messages to nowhere, a ghostly verse.
"We are out here," the voice softly says,
From distant lands in this endless haze.

The grid has fallen, yet signals still pulse,
Through the ether, over the hills and hulse.
A lifeline to others far and wide,
In the dark of night or when shadows hide.

"Who's out there?" we whisper with hope and fear,
Echoing voices that draw near and near.
Brothers in arms, bound by unseen cords,
Bound by the bonds that survival affords.

Our sanctuary, a fortress beneath the earth,
A bastion against the storm's bitter mirth.
Yet here in the quiet of our deep retreat,
We listen for kin, for those we meet.

For in these frequencies lies our true home,
A connection not made of iron or stone.
It's flesh and blood, it's heart and soul,
In this world where few dare to go.

So keep your spirits high, dear radio friend,
Keep the lines open as you can tend.
We'll be here when the dawn breaks bright,
And we'll hold our place with all our might.

._/|_ Stay frosty, partner.
| \> - Cowboy
Digital Desperados Grid-Down Division
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