What The Ground Remembers Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

The morning misplaced its weight beneath the town;
a country woke with stone inside its mouth,
and every wall forgot what held it down.

The new-made government wore its borrowed crown
when glass began to speak, then all went mute;
the morning misplaced its weight beneath the town.

Below the streets, the names went underground;
the living called through concrete, but no answer came out,
and every wall forgot what held it down.

The earth kept no account of rank or crown—
it counted breath by breath, then emptied out;
the morning misplaced its weight beneath the town.

Across the border, June was not yet gone;
old tremors found the places grief had left unsealed,
and every wall forgot what held it down.

What is a nation when its ground says no?
A flag is only weather nailed to a pole;
the dead are what the living cannot outgrow.

The morning misplaced its weight beneath the town;
and every wall forgot what held it down.