The people of the night, do they breathe, or do they save their breath for the little kids for whom they seek food?
People of the night, do they dream? If yes, then what is it?
Is it a PlayStation, like the one I wished for at a young age?
Two tickets to the new amusement park in the city?
Or do they simply dream of two bowls of rice?

We are born from the screams of our mother’s love into the land we call home.

The house where we live becomes a home, the cities become our siblings, and the culture — an intrinsic part of our identity.

We live, laugh, and cherish.

Soon, the muddy hands that played in the sand are now busy with the clicks and clacks of the keyboard.

Cities change, and so does our identity.

But during the holidays, when you return to the place you once called home,
The smile of your mother is now accompanied by a wrinkle.
Yet we don’t stop, we work, work, and work,
until the frown on your own face is accompanied by a wrinkle.

But do you ever stop to thank the people of the night?

The people of the night do dream because they are not allowed to sleep.
They built the roads; your identity is entrenched in the cities they built.
They clean those cities in haunting hours,
because even the sun can’t bear to witness the pain in their eyes.

The night people work after the midnight bell 
in illegal mines, for the ore that powers phones, which costs them an entire year’s salary.
The city-builders sweat through the night,
and their labour pays for your instant delivery.
They sacrifice bedtime stories with their children,
so your children can get to school on the roads without any minor inconvenience.

We fight over land, city, or culture, but never thank those who build them.

The long drives on weekend mornings are paid for by the sweat and blood of labourers.
The people of the night don’t dream because they know dreams are tales reserved for storybooks.

The people of the night are women, too.
They patch potholes and build your homes.
They work when the city sleeps,
And in those quiet hours, they get a glimpse of what freedom feels like.
They’re scared for their safety, but the scent of freedom isn’t it sweet?

So the next time you walk on a clean road or laugh under a lit streetlight, remember someone stayed hungry so you could arrive on time. Someone disappeared into the night so your world could shine in the morning. The people of the night do not ask for your thanks, because they know none is coming. Their names won’t be written, their dreams won’t be heard, and their stories will end before anyone ever bothers to read them. And maybe that’s just how the world works, the city sleeps peacefully, only because someone else never gets to.