The Wall Poem by Vera Sidhwa

The Wall

The motorbike smashed into the wall,
And did not recover the blood splattered all over it.
It stood rigid and like cement.
Not engaged in the pain of another.

I thought this wall would speak words of softness.
I thought this wall would say words of compassion.
I thought this wall would look with sweet and quiet eyes,
At the motorcyclist and his blood torn body,
His blood splattered dilemma.

I couldn’t believe that wall would not speak,
To the man who lost everything.
It was impossible that this phenomenon,
Could take place at all.

The ignoring of the bloody and dead,
Without a single lament or tear.

Over the punishment of the years.

It seemed as if time went on,
The reaction would be completely gone.
Once upon a time, there was a collision crash,

That meant nothing to that wall.
Nor his brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews.
That meant nothing to his friends,
So it meant nothing to him.

But at the end of this collision, getting back up,
Itmeant everything to him,
He took a piece of chalk and wrote on the wall,

“I call you the Red Wall of Death.”