In the hidden corners of this turbulent and ever changing city that claws and tears, its own historic flesh asunder to devour it in the name of progress, leaving nothing but a monstrous creature, a few trees still stand tall.
Trees, often pines, which hide something in their shadows as if to protect it. They are guardians of spaces in the territory of a lost time when there was still art in laying brick upon another brick. Yellow bricks dormant in silent uninhabited walls. The pines are the main emblem of these houses. They herald from afar that they are surrounding and watching over a building that has long gone to sleep.
Barely breathing, yet still beautiful, with a living identity. You can still hear their sound, the sound of pale yellow. The sound of crows and sparrows, the sound of lightening and relentless rain, the sound of the incessant honking of generations of cars and bulldozers and the battle cry of electrical saws and the thunder of iron and concrete that draws ever closer.