The Eighth Day
Their necks like giraffes through the fog
Searching for lights in lieu of branches
The horn resounds
As the harbor runs
Extending hands to the skies
As the world turned greyscale
If only for an hour
And there was naught but stillness
Amidst the noise
All of it
I almost forget
Almost forgot
These are strange times
And as such
A certain mysticism to be had
A certain magic
The city held
For us.
– Anna Perrson