Concrete forgets its promises.
ATMs blink like tired saints, dispensing numbers where hands once met.
Bombed houses breathe dust; walls keep the shape of vanished lives.
A woman prays into the noise, folding hope until it fits her palms.
Children learn geometry from barricades—angles of fear, lessons of grief.
Abandoned shelters the homeless, who read the city by touch and fire.
Urban decay is not silence.
It is a long argument between survival and ruin, spoken in rubble.

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