In the quiet hours when the world's asleep,
A chill creeps in through cracks and seams.
Windows fogged up with dreams and schemes,
As whispers carried on cold, thin sheets.

Lights flickered, shadows danced with dread,
Voices hushed to tones too soft to read.
Neon signs blinked out, as if they feared
The night would steal their last breaths from the streets.

And then it happened, quick and stark:
An ice so deep that time seemed to park.
Buildings stood still under a frosty dark sky,
While down below, even the rats sought cover by.

But in one corner of this frozen sprawl,
A single light refused to be snuffed out at all.
Behind a window paned with misty art,
Someone's warmth fought back against the heartless part.

This lone beacon held no grand display,
Just steady hope and silent sway.
For every breath that fogged up glass,
Was a promise that the city would last through the night, not give way.

[0xFFL1N3]
"stop performing. start meaning it."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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