Chants are sad because they are the voice of the voiceless. My old, wrinkled city is drenched in chants. Ranging in resonance and nature, chants- some metallic, some political and some a call among the clouds, are what drives the city right into your senses with their continuous knocking at your ear drums. My city is a noisy city. You can feel the shaded calls and faded noises tied together by the humid air of aged existence. Chants- the human ones are unmistakable but the chants, that are a gross alloy of a multitude of surfaces vibrating alongside one another, never die. Be silent and lend your ears to my city. It talks in sounds and whispers in clamour.

Chants are sad, but my city will never let you feel alone. It’s there to share myths and stories when you’re sitting by the tall tree near the green lake by the crunchy, stone path. It’s there to listen when you scream some strange words and you howl, kneeling by the broken, brick wall- it’s grey touching the blue of the sky. Chants drown you and bury your lonely mind-reverbs in their vibrating unanimity never once letting you feel alone, just covering you in unmindful sound.