I’ve often been asked why
I talk more to the walls than
with people;
it’s because you see,
walls are standing graves
that gulp down your conversations like
they’re in desperate need for
a cremation.
My mother tells me that if you observe
closely, you’ll see that the walls
are actually made of
alphabets strung together to form
words and phrases which when
joined, will tell you about
withering love, and dying minds.
Walls are like human beings,
grandfather says;
they too are taught by the older walls,
what it takes to be an ideal wall.
Ideal walls hold secrets within their cracks
as though they’ll come crashing down
if they let go of them.
The younger walls are often preached to,
about the legendary
stories of their ancestors;
the walls that stood to listen and
keep within them,
the tragedies of Anne Frank,
Virginia Woolf and the list goes on.
One day a madman wanted to listen
to these stories;
he begged the walls to narrate to him,
and when they didn’t,
he took a hammer and broke them down.
But all he could collect were
letters at random,
talking of nothing and yet everything at
the same time.
The conversations, and the confided secrets
had died with the walls.
When they told me that walls hold homes
I didn’t realize that they were actually
talking about;
but now I do.
Call this a tribute to all the walls
around me,
for there’s nothing much I can do in
return for them but this.
One day, these walls will breakdown;
and on that day,
I will promise to them that
I will hold it together for them until
they heal,
because that’s what they too would do,

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