There are old souls that walk these roads, and if the stones were ever rolled we would find their bones, beneath the corner shops and shuttered homes, in gutters filled with currents that once rose up to bare the bleeding earth. They huddle among the screaming masses, seen yet unseen, shades of yesterday, they, whom stand beside us in the falling rain, hold the secrets to the catacombs that breathe heavy with latent dust. This is their necropolis and we are just passing through. May we stop to read their stories, etched within the canyons of their skin. They would tell you what colors this city bleeds. They would tell you what song it sings.