Breath of City

The city doesn’t recall, it breathes softly,
among white margins of a book never opened.
Every street is a sigh that knows no name,
every lamppost holds a light that does not speak.
Through the white pages flows time, gentle,
a breath without footprints, a faded trace.
Memory is an absence the city carries within,
and white becomes breath, quiet as a soft exhalation.
The book remains closed, and the breath expands into the void.
The city lives without past, yet it remains alive.
From the white pages a light voice can be heard,
breath of city, that doesn’t recall but exists.