If the butterfly flaps its wings in such a place
Where the streets are never sleeping; where
Bright lights hide the bruises and
Hold the hopes of those who wait,
For fate to show its hand,
Then it does so, too, in such a place

Where the streets are as gray
As winter skies, and the skyline itself
Only towers higher than one can see,
Set against itself, for the odds
Have been this way since the beginning,
Long before this child came to be.

Here, perhaps, is where the odds are set against him,
Like the city he is born to,
With her glittering arms,
Wide open but unreachable, for someone who
Does not yet understand all that it means.