In a high-rise box

In a high-rise box, on the topmost floor,
Above my hometown, where dreams still soar.
Once named Meshadi, but scripts rewrote,
Now Eldar I am—Elchin's own note.
And I only write truth, that's all I promote.

I watch from the balcony—cars, people, blocks below,
The 2000s passed here—our best years, you know.
Across from the high-rise, I prayed in yeshiva,
To God the Father—like all Jews, no deceiver.
Played Need For Speed through Sabbath and Yom Kippur,
Jamming to Coolio, 50 Cent, and Hose allure.
Kissed the mezuzah, passed through the door,
Abjection to God the Son, pride to a kippah I wore
Laughed with KVN, Bash.org, Smekhopanorama,
Quoting jokes that felt like my story drama.
Above my street’s now a tasteless park design,
Built for buyers who'd would thought it was fine.
It’s as useless as scuba gear for a pregnant dachshund,
Was bought only due to fifty percent discount.
Every pipe, balcony, trampled ground,
Compressed in my memory, moments abound.
I saved even the cafe where I spent my prize,
A dollar from cap of Fanta—a treasure in my eyes.

Bought two milkshakes (we called them "cocktails")
Near the boulevard, where life once prevailed.
Now the cocktail shops are gone, coffee shops replace,
Pretentious, dull, with none of the case.
Yet a billiards club still fights this tide,
A small escape, where all's back resides.

In a high-rise box, on the topmost floor,
Above my hometown, where dreams still soar.
I could’ve served my land, but scripts rewrote,
Now I serve the system, my pen takes note.
And I only write truth, that's all I promote

Memories visit like tourists from afar,
I fear one day they’ll expose the scar:
Born blue, premature, with icy eyes,
In an incubox, weight chicken-sized.
Learned to walk by clutching walls,
Didn’t cried from stress, keeping cool my balls.
Fell the first time, and they laughed aloud,
But since four years old, I stay quiet, unbowed.
The plot advanced on a journey wide,
To Vladivostok—through the tundra ride.
A month-long voyage across the land,
Baikal’s tunnels vague in my mind’s strand.
Yet I still dream of subway caves,
Mom said I sketched them, deep shadowy graves.
The call of the dungeons felt so clear,
I thought a dragon slumbered somewhere near.
In Ulduz or Bakmil’s endless haze,
I wandered through labyrinths in a dream gaze.
Had I fallen in a coma in 2005,
And awoke to malls and TikTok alive,
With parks so neat, life stripped of its spark,
I’d think the dragon moved from the dark.
Now it sleeps in this high-rise box I see,
Curled by screens, dreaming endlessly.

In a high-rise box, on the topmost floor,
Above my hometown, where dreams still soar.
I could’ve run the rails, but scripts conflicted—
Now I run propaganda, and my truth’s addicted.