Red is the color that takes over the iris overpowering the cone cells and leaving us with a citadel — built upon a cobweb — before us. Every step towards evolution stems from the moment of synthesis. But their synergies would land in a stupor if both axes sink in the achromatic red. Morphing every single thing, even senses, won’t hold the same significance as they would expire their essence in transformation. The translation is akin to that. Marathi being Mhatre’s mother tongue, allows him to transform the thought that mutates into English. However, the translation process can often lobotomize the effect. Yet, amidst that siren, Mhatre respires the rhapsody. Especially when coerced by societal permutation and combination to stay afloat or to live. In that marathon, our ears get adjusted to tinnitus after reverberating sirens. Stopping and pondering the birdsongs can seem like a utopia that hazes out at the edge of the horizon. Yet, Mhatre tries to glance his being out there, ranging from political to anatomical, scientific to theology, and wholeness to a deficit of our choices, thoughts, and fortunes. A City Full of Sirens sprawls into the undercurrent of people, things, and places while the sirens whiz like a warning.