A bullet destroys graffiti on a wall,
Dust and brick,
Dust and brick.
I am a ghost, moving between the wall and the world
And so far, the bullet has only touched me.
But the wall is no longer a wall,
Crumbling as it is.
One thousand five hundred years
have done nothing to this wall
but one angry man destroyed the world from horseback
and now the bullet destroyed the wall.
Crumbling dried mud brick is converted to earth
It was defined by form, and not substance.
Earth in the shape of a wall is not earth, but a wall.
Ignorance in the shape of a bullet is not hate, but death.
It does not matter how you die:
the reversion automatica will recover you.
Body is earth, but I am a ghost,
moving between the wall and the world
The bullet was fired from a gun made far away,
The bullet was made over twenty years ago
And changed hands legally only once,
though it’s crossed several borders
(which didn’t exist before).
The man who fired the gun
has the most common name in the world
but shares none of the traits of his namesake
save for the physical characteristics
like a beard and resilient hands and skin,
and eyes squinted against all the sun.
I feel guilty for being safe.
Nobody wants to kill me
Neither because I am Me, nor because I Am.
How do I reconcile my suffering with the wall?
with the bullet?
How am I a ghost when I am not dead?
I cannot condescend to place myself in between a bullet and
the real suffering of others,
for I am only an interloper,
and part of the suffering is having it thrust upon you,
it is having no choice.
I am guilty, but I am a ghost
I am not the wall,
and the bullet has not yet destroyed me,
I am a ghost, and the earth will never get me back.