Poem after the waste wall

Most parts of the Wall were pre-fabricated segments, originally designed for other kind of buildings. It was never seen as the wall of a house, though.

An almost invisible thread
had guided crowds for years.
Rushing out from shelters
and bunkers, they gathered
here to eavesdrop winds
and western whispers
behind the wall. The firm
back of the winter’s hand
halted them all before it.
It didn’t upturn the hourglass,
nor did it shake and clean
its clogged throat.
The days were dust,
the dust that was their house.
Now none dares to speak to
those who’ve chosen to forget.
And we all go with them.
Dead men only speak
a language of regret.


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