A city echoes upon distant hills, Where shadows play like restless souls, In the palette of twilight’s haze, The buildings stand like ancient trees.
Nature creeps within the stone hearts, A vine wrapping itself around defeat, O, how beautifully it works, The silent art of soft intrusion.
In every opening, a glimpse remains, Of suns absent yet ever present, A hidden garden breathing freedom, Amid layers of humanity’s grind.
- Giorgio de Chirico