Roots Beneath Concrete

The grey stones rise where once the meadow breathed, Glass and steel obscuring the pale morning light. Yet beneath the quiet hum of passing wheels, The ancient roots stretch slow and blind.

They remember the gentle weight of snow, The distant rumble of forgotten rivers. A silent network weaving through the dark, Holding fast to earth long buried.

Leaves push through the narrow iron grates, Reaching upward for a fractured sun. A stubborn defiance painted in soft green, Living monuments to an older world.