On the etched night street, you are the only living white line.
Shadow swarms follow the trembling of the lines — move, and the etching around you ripples;
stand still, and you merge into the plate's grain — no one can see you.
But the lamps die, one by one. When they go, the street sinks into pure black,
and only the warm light behind a window still knows the way.
Survive till dawn. Deeper waves bring more shadows.