In concrete towers, silence softly weeps,
Where empty rooms await their reparation,
Each unit bears the mark of time's creation,
A landscape where neglected memory sleeps.
Sixty-six inspected, seven-seventy-four to go,
The walls whisper tales of moisture's slow embrace,
Of cracked facades and sockets out of place,
Where restoration's tender hands must flow.
O spreadsheets vast, with numbers cold and clear,
Revealing damage wrought by passing years,
From balcony to socket, floor to ceil,
A canvas painted with structural tears.
Though broken now, these spaces shall emerge
Renewed, restored — where hope and skill converge.