By Simran Bance.
Brick by brick
He built a wall.
for dynasties to cherish and build upon,
meters wide for a million miles,
scarred with myths of the bravest warriors,
but standing now on the mountains alone,
drying in the scorching sun,
sinking into the eastern air,
losing purpose year after year.
Brick by brick
He built a wall.
to hold a reign of Roman blood,
the strongest stone to guard their land,
a permanent mark of growing power,
but crumbles now on the cold hillside,
new life slithering through its cracks,
retreated men from a kingdom’s loss,
breathes the life of growing moss.
Brick by brick
He built a wall.
to slice between the east and west,
with concrete cold with lives as pawns,
in the flourishing right and the crying left,
but graffiti worn it was slowly torn,
the winds of voices blowing it down,
its remnants melting in burning heat,
its ghost haunting the bustling streets.
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