Night City

The city rises into darkness
like a question.

Its towers disturb the patience of the stars.
Glass and steel insist
that night is not final.

Every window is a small argument
against extinction.

Across the lake
their reflections tremble.

Gold stretches on the water
in long uncertain lines,
as though the city were practicing
another version of itself.

One tower stands apart,
a column of light
threading the air.

From a distance
it looks less like architecture
than an idea—

a ladder
someone has leaned against the sky.

Around it the lesser buildings
keep their stations.

Their edges burn quietly.

The lake accepts everything:
light, shadow, the whole ambitious geometry.

It gives the city back to itself
in wavering script.

Standing there
I understood something simple.

We build upward
not because we expect to arrive

but because the gesture
briefly persuades the dark

that it is not alone.