Batman Begins

Batman Begins

In the thin blue light of the Thames‑side,
the city’s lung, a restless demon of night –
Gotham is not a carnival of sparkle and glitter;
it is a sprawling warren where the metallic echoes of a bicycle bell
meet the hiss of neon in a cardiogram of the wrong.

Young Duke Bruce walks the shadowed avenues,
his favourite grin haunted by a butchered father,
his eyes reflecting the night that roars with crime.
He realises that harrowing act – one stormed clash –
is but a chapter in a saga that is yet a gothic text.

He collects hints like a secret museum,
together with jigsaw of a breakdown, black stone, and a bare cathode.
His recovery comes from a hidden studio beneath the manor –
the laboratory of his own disciplines.
There gadgets gleam like polished sceptre,
and he, with a careful, deliberate plan, organises the so‑called bane

He sees beyond the cracked veneer of the city:
a black bat that is a macabre omen, a silhouette of vigilance.
He crafts a costume that is a monastic body armour,
fitted with a cowl that sees beyond the veil of grey.
The city’s heart beats quietly, but he has learned to hear its pulse.

The Batmobile is not a mere pony car —
it is a bronze steed born of ingenuity,
to cloud the streets as nightfall returns.
He greets the bat‑signal, a stellar envoy from the harbour,
each beam a meaning for the reticent night‑walkers.

At last, the think‑tank of moral conscience clenches his hand;
he steps from the cathedral of darkness to become the night’s builder.
A hero cupped in Bloody gloves, his legend begins,
to favour the forgotten, and fill the night with an undaunted echo.