Hidden in the crevices of a wall,
in small cracks, are small wishes
written in ink and pencil,
carrying small hopes,
prayers, dreams.
The rock wall crumbles
to the sound of the river
behind it. Slow, gentle.
Sometimes the small papers
blow with an afternoon breeze,
freed from the aging mortar and
like dragonflies, chart a course
greater than being stuck
in the rocks of a monument.
Rain pounds the wall,
thundering on the river behind it.
Rivulets of water carry waterlogged
runny hopes like discarded gum
wrappers down to the ignominy
of the mud below.
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