Stone

In the belly of the market they are building walls, hard walls, cement walls, and raising them high, high up and on top of them, as far as the sky goes, they plant spearheads, cutting and sharp. They are building walls walls without openings on and on, on and on. The walls see nothing: neither the delicate pecking of the turtledove on its mate’s neck, nor the joining of wave after wave in the water, nor night nor sun. The walls see nothing: walls together walls apart walls bewildered and dazed go home come from home walls wander through the city and the wounds of the blows of collision they carry with them. From the surface to the depth over their bodies the stream of branching cracks creeps forward toward the event the collapse - collapse - in the belly of the market...