The walls still speak

The walls still speak when mouths close shut.

Beneath the fresh paint, beneath the plaster of renovations, there are sentences that wait.

They do not ask to be read. They demand to be heard.

The city sleeps in its own noise. The neons say buy and the walls reply burn.

Nobody listens to walls. Nobody listens to the dead. Nobody listens to what yields no profit.

But one day, the plaster falls. The paint peels off. And the sentence returns, intact, red, furious:

We were here before you. We will be here after.