Through canyons carved of glass and cold disdain.
A million shadows brush against my sleeve,
In this crowded web the restless city weaves.
We march in lockstep to a digital beat,
Upon the grey indifference of the street.
The sky is bruised, a hazy, muted glow,
Where stars once stood, now only satellites show.
And as I threaded through the faceless throng,
Where silence is a ghost and noise is a song,
Kismat paused beside a rain-slicked wall,
To watch me walk, unhurried and standing tall.
"Why go alone?" she asked, her voice a sigh,
Reflected in the steel that scrapes the sky.
"In a world of billions, linked by wire and light,
Why brave the hollow echoes of the night?
Is there no hand to hold, no heart to share,
In this vast hive of curated despair?"
I turned to her, a smile both sharp and thin,
Against the biting wind that tests the skin.
"The path of the Deewana is a holy fire,
It burns above the reach of common hire.
Not every hand can grasp a spirit's flame,
Or walk the wilds that have no earthly name."
Let the city hum its hurried, frantic prayer,
I breathe the stillness in the smoggy air.
For in this rush where every soul is sold,
The hardest hand to find is one worth the hold.
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