In squalid depths, choked with ash and grime,

Its crooked streets a testament to time.

The acrid scent of ash, burnt and clinging,

Whispers of secrets through the air still singing.

Rusty hinges creak, a lone cough breaks the night,

Shuffling feet on cobbles, figures huddled tight.

Flickering candlelight in windows cast,

Shadows stretch long, misshapen, dark and vast.

A weary blacksmith, soot-streaked and forlorn,

Hammers out despair on an anvil worn.

His dreams, like embers, dim with every strike,

Yet hope ignites with each resilient spike.

A woman clutches a locket, tarnished, old,

Her eyes reflecting memories, tales untold.

She whispers secrets to the midnight air,

A prayer for solace, woven with despair.

A child stares blankly from a cracked, dim pane,

Eyes wide with hunger, mirroring silent pain.

Graffiti on the walls, sins of days gone by,

A shattered icon, a muffled cry.

In squalid depths, choked with ash and grime,

Its crooked streets a testament to time.

Where sunbeams fear to tread, and laughter’s sound

Is smothered 'neath despair’s unholy ground.

A meagre fire burns, a beacon in the cold,

Scraps of food scavenged, stories of the old.

A shared blanket, threadbare, against the chill,

Survival's bitter struggle, iron-willed.

Beneath a sky perpetually ashen grey,

The hollow-eyed in mourning kneel and sway.

Yet in their hearts, a flicker, faintly bright,

A distant echo of forgotten light.

With heavy hearts, they seek the distant light,

Their burdens deep, they travel through the night.

Beneath a star, once guiding, now amiss,

They seek the refuge, solace lies in this.

For in that sacred, hallowed, blessed embrace,

Perhaps they’ll find redemption, find some grace.

And through the iron gate, 'neath heaven’s pall,

They seek St. Sybil’s grace, their final call.