The Unheard Breath of Concrete

Under the sun that bites and then caresses,
every bridge, every wall, every step
feels an ancient force that stretches it,
a dilation, an almost heartbeat.
There is no voice in the gray, no groan,
only an imperceptible, slow tremor
that widens atoms and fills invisible cracks,
a slumber of giants that stretch out.

Then the night, with veil of dew,
withdraws the warm echo of the day.
And the concrete, in a sleep without dream,
constricts its tired scaffolding.
Every molecule seeks its cradle,
an eternal folding, without haste,
like an old man who, weary, curls up,
in the shadow that envelops and resets it.

Thus, in the mute cycle between light and frost,
the motionless giant moves.
It challenges not the sky, nor awaits tests,
but lives within itself its secret tide.
A breath of stone, never heard,
that weaves time, strong and never ending,
guardian of a secret without end,
the eternal dance between losing and regaining.