Among the secret recesses of the ceiling, the ducts wind
Full of air, like veins that carry the building’s breath
On hot days and on colder ones.
Silent craftsmen, infinite care,
They glide through the shadows, lantern in hand,
Inspecting every joint, every bend,
Where dust nestles with great effort.
You see them, suspended in tight corridors,
Watchful as old sages,
Scrutinizing the steel and glass interior,
Repairing with love ancient messages.
A breath of wind, a light whisper,
Rise from the clean, restored ducts,
While their tools gleam under the moonlight,
Their movements slow and precise, almost endless.
With brushes and cloths, with boundless care,
They banish the shadow, restore life,
And the air that travels, fresh as dew,
Thanks these angels of sky and street alike.
Every tightened screw, every cleaned channel,
Is a promise of purity, of renewed breath.
In that slow and gentle dance of the technicians,
The building brightens, the air becomes fine.
They are the custodians of the breeze, the hidden heroes,
Who patiently, with commitment and toil,
Give back to the world its lost freshness,
In a symphony of pure air, endless and tireless.
