Under the stony walls,
these are the only walls left,
we gather.
We, the weathered, the broken.
Survivors, if we don't
crumble.

Our footsteps
and vocal chords,
a quiet hallowed chorus,
echoing 
against the walls,
our cold and stony sanctuary,
alone like us,
among its many fallen.

The walls are mourning with us,
the hollow rumble
of a broken people.
Under the stony walls
we gather,
and our hymn slows
and dies away
into the hushed sobs
of mothers.

In the dead of silence
our bodies wait--
our souls lost
in the rubble.

A crumpled elder
stands before us,
in his hand
the names of those
for whom we cry our chorus.

The stone holds its breath too
silently praying
for name 
after name.
after name.

We are a broken people.
our child,
brother,
father and mother.
Lost in the upheaval.

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