By Alaa Gaafary
If these walls could speak, ahhh the things they would say…
They would speak, my children, of protection and inclusion, of safety behind great blocks of stone and flapping banners, of knights that could not scale such walls and of bards that lounged on windowsills and strummed the mandolins they cradled.
These walls would speak of hunger and war, and their red tears would trickle out of the windows with the slow sticky patter of a sick man’s pulse, and steady drip of pain.
They would speak of renovation and fresh paint, of fresh yellow-blue faces that fairly thrummed with the voices and laughter and music within, of the happiness of holidays and weddings and coronations and homecomings, and they would glow inwardly with the golden lights.
They would speak of years of turmoil and triumphs, of pleasures and pains, of kings on thrones and kindergarteners on fieldtrips, of old-day priests and modern-day plumbers, of many things long forgotten or forgiven. Walls, alas, do not speak, but only they remember… so remember that.
"Angreek87"
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