The Dark Knight

The Dark Knight

In alleys where the railings creak like mice in a maze,
the night unfurls its velvet shroud over the old city’s maze—
pavements weary, teeming with the soft thud of a waltz
of hurried feet, the echoing wail of kennels, the clatter of a lorry

A rider in black — no here, no candle, no saint, but a knight in chrome
the Dark Knight of these whisper‑souled streets, the bow of some dread, the quick‑step of steel.
He glides from one corner to another as the moon draws out its silver hands,
an armour of shadows that wipes his breath against his own name.

He watches the absurd glare of streetlights; the city’s brass mailboxes hum,
the busker’s notes bellow, the metallic clink of a battered mailbox—
all a hush before the storm that surrenders to the wind’s caprice.

In the flicker of a manhole’s shaft, the vigilkeeper’s intonation
is a modern ballad in the ’n’ of the eve: the quiet hum of a Penelope’s engine,
the bat – a pronoun to the melancholy of this silent chorus.

He is the guardian of the black warning signs, the law’s dusty bureau,
the chieftain of public terror in its own corporate jargon—
the echo of a key in a charge of wicked Oerkeine’s nightfall,
the parliament of the past.

He unseats the menace that lurks behind basilicas and tear‑filled walls,
shields the beloved shopping quarter from the outlaw’s fingers and seeks the continuum of the cosmos.
No chequered flag will wind toward his silver escapades; a storm of ambitions, the sojourn of valiancy.

The Dark Knight carries the weight of every resident’s faith in his sweeps,
a dose of courage for each lonely night, the love for a nation's soft conscience.
To rise as the nation's barricade so that the lull of the streets is clear,
An expedition into the darkness to count the possibilities of dawn.

When the darkest midnight comes, no trophy or wage or spurious surrender shall stay.
The dressed knight, the wised one, will draw the lamp of balancing:

The Wind‑borne call of defence erode; the suffering of change,
A torch that is all too strongly blazing will alienate the founding destiny.

And when poets huck about the seam of reality,
The Dark Knight somewhere in the east stands, the legend is iconic
to preserve the night’s vibrations and so produce the same.