GALATEA

When I walk the city’s veins, I hear its breath—a murmuring tide. It calls me to trace the echoes Buried under steel and glass, Silent beneath the neon glow, Fading beyond the concrete dusk— A fleeting, spectral light.

The streets are alive with whispers, A thousand hands shaping its form. It watches us with phantom eyes, As we carve its flesh from stone. Does it dream? Does it remember? Or are we its only dream— A pulse, a cry, a name?

Galatea of iron and dust, Rise from the rubble, speak. We built you, but you remake us, Mirror and maker, lost and found. In your fractured skin, we see Another self—alive, unseen— A city breathing, a city dreamed.