The street yawns beneath gray skies,
its breath a murmur of wheels and worn boots.
Childeren watch with eyes too old,
hands tucked in pockets with nothing but lint.

A factory bell rings-
not to summon, but to remind:
life here is measured in soot
and the weight of bread.

Yet still,
a boy hums a tune with no name,
and a girl picks a flower
from a crack in the cobblestone.