PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Weathered and beaten,

Cracked bricks lay on the ground.

They're being gathered and moved,

A new location for a wall.

Stacked tall and at the ready,

Next to bags of powdered concrete -

Piled as if they were sandbags

Trying to stop a flood.

But they're bags to be poured out,

As far as the eye goes,

Even over the Ural Mountains -

Woe would've been Noah.

I've found myself mystified, stunned,

In staring at all brick-layers involved.

My shoes walk all sides of the effort, and

I can't wrap my head around

How they move backwards

In all of their motions

So fluidly, so unable to see the writing on the, well, you know...

Cause I clearly see "Berlin", the word

Pressed into each one of the old, baked stones,

That again-roughening hands

Press, one on top of the other.

It seems the gatherers have forgotten

Why these are from a torn-down past.

History is here again,

It seems a lesson learned

Weathers away first,

And soon after does a gentle hand.

The bricks, though,

Oh, the bricks, how they last.