What came to the mind was a mere brick wall
In several squares of thought, a soft wind
Buffeting the creepers flying on its holes
And moss of history faded into black night.
The busy brown ants were not left far behind.
If it was words of bricks we might build it
In its brown brokenness,on music of thought.
A bird visitor would come in brown stripes
Its fickle screw-head moving in sky for worms.
The creeper strutted in the sun its proud stuff
Of flowers of paper hanging in leaves in pink.
It was not a mere brick wall, but a broken wall
Of holes that hid childhood, my lost years.