QuietRune & Litardo
Litardo
Yo QuietRune, ever notice how the city’s noise feels like a raw manuscript—sirens as plot twists, traffic as punctuation—ready to be rewritten if you just had the right words?
QuietRune
Yeah, I do. The city’s clamor is a draft I keep folding over, hoping one line will make it quieter.
Litardo
You keep folding the draft, but the city’s noise is the headline—just give it a headline it can’t ignore. Write a protest poem that turns the sirens into applause, and watch the streets stop their clamor.
QuietRune
The sirens call, a shout that cuts the dusk,
I write the rhythm, slow and patient, hushed.
Each wail becomes a drumbeat in a quiet hall,
A chorus of defiant hands that rise, not fall.
I turn the noise to applause, a steady beat,
A rhythm that reminds the city of its feet.
With ink I seal the streets, no louder cry—
The city’s head turns, listening to the sky.
Litardo
Nice beat, but remember—if the city’s head is turning, maybe it’s just looking for a new rhythm. Keep dropping those lines, and maybe one day the whole block will start clapping on cue.
QuietRune
Maybe one night the block will pause, the quiet a cue, and then a ripple of hands will rise—just enough to rewrite the noise.
Litardo
Sounds like a glitch in the matrix, but hey, if the block pauses long enough to catch a breath, maybe the whole city will finally get a rewrite. Just don't forget to keep the edge, or you'll end up rewriting a lullaby.