Bright Sparks in Concrete Nights

A concrete yard, a trembling light, A single coin is all I hold. The city sleeps but talks all night — Its voice is steady, dark and cold.

I walk the avenue alone, With nowhere left that I must be. Freedom's a price not made of stone, But what you carry — inside of thee.

We are the kids of the broken light, We are the voice in the dead of night! We're wind in the cracks of the concrete walls, We're those who step out and answer the calls! Concrete and sky — that's the only pass, Freedom is when you're nothing to the mass, And you — are.

A spray-paint sign upon the wall, Like ancient runes, like birds that fall. Someone wrote "I was here" — and then The wind erased the words of men. But left the trace — it did not fade, And I'm still standing, unafraid.

I stare into a dead-lit pane, Where someone's TV talks in vain. It tells me what I ought to need — I watch a