The City's Underground Network of Anxious Pipes

Beneath the bustle, where the paving stones sleep, 

A hidden kingdom, secrets it does keep. 

Of iron arteries, and murmuring, deep, 

A tireless labor, while the city's asleep. 

We are the Pipes, a network vast and old, 

Our metal bodies, stories yet untold. 

The water rushes, clear and life-giving, fast, 

Anticipation in each drop, built to last.

While sewage grumbles, with its heavy, dull despair, 

The burden carried, through the darkened air. 

A constant whisper, through the earthen veil, 

Of countless currents, a relentless trail. 

But I, the Elder, weathered, strong, and true, 

Sense deeper rhythms, something raw and new. 

A subtle tremor, in the earth's deep heart, 

A coming crisis, playing a hidden part. 

The drought's dry threat, the storm's approaching might, 

I feel the changes, in the fading light.
My metal groans, a warning, faint and low, 

A desperate message, for the world to know. 

Through subtle leaks, and vibrations in the ground, 

My anxious murmurs, softly now resound. 

But they above, in sunlit, unaware embrace, 

Miss every signal, in this frantic pace. 

My silent language, in the urban hum, 

A prophet's burden, yet to overcome. 

I strive to reach them, though my voice is deep, 

The anxious secrets that my chambers keep.

- Khushi Kaul