In the night—she counts heartbeats.

Of alley cats... and sewer rats— she speaks to the streets.

Not angry enough to be a super-villain,

but her shadow—holds sermons no preacher is willin’.

A thunderous soul—stricken with wisdom.

She burns through the gears—of a cold-steel system.

Sippin’ bum wine, trading hours for rhyme,

watching her sisters—throw silver... to swine.

The lamplight bends—when she draws too near.

Her silence—too loud for the city to bare.

She carves her truth—on brick and stone,

a queen without crown... yet never alone.

Her voice—drumfire the night can’t kill.

A hymn for the restless, the broken, the still.

She dances on echoes, bleeds into rhyme,

a prophet of gutters—ahead of her time.

And when dawn cracks open—she slips from the scene.

A whisper... a legend... a ghost in between.

The streets keep her secrets, the myths keep her name, a flame in the shadows... that no one can claim.