Beneath neon’s glare, a terrace blooms—
Not roots nor leaves, but plastic fruits conspire,
Their syrup drips in saccharine perfumes,
A trap for flies drunk on electric fire.
Concrete veins pulse with synthetic juice,
Glass thrones host lips that sip and never taste;
Each gulp a hymn to progress, yet obtuse—
Teeth rot as sweetness melts to chemical waste.
......
Beneath neon’s glare, a terrace blooms—
Not roots nor leaves, but plastic fruits conspire,
Their syrup drips in saccharine perfumes,
A trap for flies drunk on electric fire.
Concrete veins pulse with synthetic juice,
Glass thrones host lips that sip and never taste;
Each gulp a hymn to progress, yet obtuse—
Teeth rot as sweetness melts to chemical waste.
......