In the alleyways, a language lights up, never born; A beat without grammar, a whisper with no owner. Every night the city dresses it in new tongues and strange lights; And she remains, an echo brushing footsteps without taking shape. When the deep dark settles, that language vibrates through parted doors; Not born, yet able to bind the air in a single breath. I hear it, a filigree of syllables brushing the façades. And at dawn it vanishes, leaving just traces of what it might have said.