Moon in the Sewers

A moon’s whisper bows above the city’s drains,
washing hands in cold waters that forget the light.
The grates tremble, the reflections are washed away,
and the air smells of iron and rain.
Rebuilt dreams flicker back within the pipes,
a tiny light where the signals are dead.
They do not scream, they whisper like strands of light,
in that concrete corridor where promises are born.
The moon departs, leaving a trace of bright water,
the city holds its breath for an instant.
Steps grow lighter now, the heart begins to glow,
and darkness yields to a gleam of hopeful light.