Written by  George Gad Economou

 

the walls are deaf and blind; thank

Bacchus for that, otherwise they’d

make for

condemning witnesses in any court. if rooms could

talk, oh, the tales they’d tell. horrors and

pain, tears and rage. magnificent jabs landed

on them, foreheads banged against

them; gushing blood, opprobrious language, glistening sweat and

ardent tears of pain and love. they’re empty, deaf and blind; that’s

alright, for, otherwise, they’d be

dead.

 

there’s nothing more lachrymose than a

lugubrious room brimful with voices, the reverberating

whispers of long-dead loves and of pulverized

dreams. a trace of hope lingers

in the air, getting ready for the

execution. the rooms are

omnipotent, already witnessed

too much; they remain silent, because they’re as

dead and empty as their occupant’s

soul.

 

the walls try to shield, to protect from the

evils of the outside world; they cry along, they laugh

along. wish to keep you safe, and

fail. the world’s rough, love’s dead, just as

dead as the hope footling within

the empty rooms, withering away

like the soul.

 

decorated by smidgens of a broken

heart, the walls wish to

tell their stories, to forewarn the next

occupant about the hazards of a world that knows only

how to murder dreams.

 

they struggle to keep everyone out, prevent

inevitable pain from penetrating their confines; they thus

remain empty, lacking souls to protect. the pain

remains, just like the wailing. hope’s

assassinated, the walls

crumble down.

 

with nothing left to

protect, with all stories

told, the tears are cleansed. the

pain’s

gone—life ended, like the dream. farewell, the

walls whisper, finding their

voice. an echo of all broken

promises resounds in

the ruins, remnants of a vain hope

for a better life that was stolen without

consideration.

 

 

Text © George Gad Economou

*

 

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