Aimless Child
I find myself like an aimless child running my hands along these walls like a guitar pick against its strings I walk for sixty-five miles and then maybe more. I pass the children's dreams along the way bobbing like bodiless fish heads, the children's fists striking the stone like suns against skies, their dreams drift along the walls like a baby in a basket straying down a river. It's mother cries, "Live. Live!", but the children cry, "To die. To die!" We set our people free with only our dreams, we are sad, and we are good, and we lie in the earth, build bridges with our backs so that our children may reach the walls with the smallest of voices in one hand and a fistful of river water in another. "Live. Live!" the mothers cry, the children's fists bleed river water, baptizes the wall in their mother's sacrifice. And a singular voice rises like the dust of all those that came before, "To die. To die." -anna