Behind the Bricks

A poem

I strive to see the other side, but can’t even see a pint of familiar dust through my binoculars…

I awake,

Seeing through the light provided by the roof’s hole

I dare not to brake

The heat of the borrowed furnace

The elderly temper of burning coal.

I wish bricks

Had features recording tales of the south.

I wish such slabs of silica

Would do none less than

Record sandy tales of us refugees!!

The burns on my hands,

Of the burning flame

when the speakers from the other side

where once my village existed…..

Waiting so that….

From somewhere,

Somebody would recognize…

Not just me , but us

Up from the rusty bricks

Amidst the anger, rage and fuss

Eagerly praying so that somewhere, someone please

Call out my name,

So if I may

Rest in the pain of my burning flame…

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