On Swanston Street, she walks
through a river of passing hours,
headphones sealing a private weather
against the city’s noise.
The traffic lights blink and wait,
faces blur into motion,
but she moves with a measured resolve,
eyes forward, unborrowed.
An illustrated gaze stares from her jumper,
another world layered over this one—
ink and fabric carrying a story
the street will never fully hear.
Wind lifts her hair like a half-spoken thought,
boots meet pavement in quiet defiance,
and for a moment the city bends around her,
letting her pass,
untranslated.
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