Neon trembles on black water.
A bicycle glides past shuttered stalls.
Someone lifts a metal gate; it rattles once.
Dusk has dimmed its last gleam of light.
The ferry horn sounds—
then fades into the towering streets.

Windows stack endlessly upward,
The crowd fits through narrow alleys.
Somewhere, a late bus exhales at the curb.
Trains are soaring trough the under of this world.

This city does not sleep.
And neither does the wind.
Where is the wind going?

It's going far, far away.