City of God

A city where the night never sleeps, but morning is always late. The air is thick with smoke, conversation, and the eternal “I'm about to get up.” Here, every other person sings about money, but it sounds more like a prayer - broken, but sincere. The rhymes smell of asphalt, the hands smell of sweat, and the eyes have seen too much to believe in miracles.

Somewhere between “pain in my chest” and the clinking of beer caps, the truth emerges - not about gangsters, but about survival. Just a boy from the neighborhood who grew up faster than he wanted to. It's the same sun, only reflected in the windows of pawn shops. And yet, in this hum, there is life, real life, with all its scars and dirt, but warm because it is his own.