Marco Di Caprio

Amid dense clouds, a pallid sky unfolds,
no hidden sign, no mystery revealed.

I walk a road half-swallowed by the fog,
yet what I breathe is not the mist of earth,
but smoke that coils from buildings charred and bare.

No trees remain, but only the wreck of things,
the rotting waste that steams beneath the air;
a bitter scent that clings to every step
and stains the silence of the empty street.

The passersby move on, yet never meet;
their days collapse in gestures without aim.
Their faces dimly lit by borrowed light,
they speak through glass and never truly speak.

No song is heard, no wandering minstrel’s voice,
only a march, mechanical and cold,
that sets the pulse of all that drifts and moves,
a rhythm stripped of life, yet marching on.