Speak

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Speak

 

They say the walls can feel

the hands that built them,

hewed them out of stone,

that the stones remember the songs

they sang when they thought

they were alone, and

nobody was listening.

 

They remember the way they

cursed when they accidentally

chipped off too much, or

hammered a thumb red.

 

The stones even remember the

sun and the moon,

the way it felt to be

illuminated from above.

 

The walls don’t speak much,

but when they do they

carry prayers.

 

When a hymn floats up

from the assembled below

they pass it on,

and pass it on.

 

The stones know that

when you’re praying in the forest

when nobody’s around

the trees may not notice,

but heaven hears the sound.

 

The walls say the hands can feel

the hands that built them.

Hands and walls

Like echoes in a cathedral.

 

-M.M.

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