In the dusk’s embrace, where dreams are spun from whispers and longing, listen to the ballad of the girl with feathers in her hair and the boy with seashell teeth. Together they traverse the city of night, wrapped in a jacket of golden leaves, wrestling with the wind that dances through the streets, around corners, over cobbled paths, and between the towering herds of steel and glass.
They glide past the choked stars, moons dimmed by neon’s persistent hum, reaching for the dark spires and golden lions, their naïve wings enveloping the shimmering pretense and the searing truth: the heat of the urban maze is a wild, unbearable beast.
In this city of night, they long for the cold, for the need to huddle close, to find solace in the solitude of their shared warmth, with no dawn to chase them into tomorrow, no ticking clocks, just an eternal stretch of moments.
There, where time fades into the background, they drift above the clamor of the crowded eateries, the bridge and tunnel throngs drunk on the intoxicating blend of grime and splendor. Here, the fish may swim in exotic flavors, and the beer froth with foreign zest, but it’s not the same. It lacks the familiar taste of home, of seasons that justify a steaming mug or a hearty meal beneath the snow’s silent watch.
They muse on greener grasses, on laws of longing and the ceaseless human quest to recreate metropolises in the shadows of baobabs and sands flooded with winter’s kiss. They whisper of traded languages and transforming shores, of boats casting silhouettes against the sprawl of lights, each one a story, a dream lived and told.
Every night, they soar, every night they dream, their wingspan casting shadows over the island’s heart, where drums beat a relentless rhythm, a pulse that echoes across the expanse, beating, beating, a drumming that is the island itself.
In this abstract love song, the girl with feathers in her hair and the boy with seashell teeth find themselves and each other, every night, every single night, in the city of night.
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