We are the poetry of the streets,
youthful and full of ambitions.
Cacophony rising as voices mingle
at night when we wander together.
There are no quiet hours.
The songbirds will sing their own odes
when the morn comes,
when the Sun lifts her head and the Moon goes to bed.
At that time, the cranky neighbors will wake,
open their sleepy eyes, and stretch their tired arms,
but for now, as midnight nears, the streets need us
and our beautiful bodies
alive and about
to make meaning from darkness
and spread streetlight glee.
We are the poetry of the streets.
We make the music of the night.