They have gathered before this wall,
It was a nondescript wall.
In the art wing.
Half a world away
They are gathered by a wall
Now there is a piece of paper.
And an old coffee can
Into which a box of fresh, new markers was placed.
There was God’s dwelling
And now it is all rubble except for this.
Squares and trapezoids of print
In the unlikely, bright colors
Have been blossoming on the page all day.
Much is revieled by what it is you’d like to call this place:
Kotel;The Wailing Wall; Waqf; or Abu Madiyans
At the top,
In purple
It says “This is what we remember.”
If they do not rend their garments they sa:
That which they have been told to say:
They have gathered before this wall.
In groups of twos and threes and fours.
They are crying, some of them.
“Our Holy Temple which was our glory,
in which our forefathers praised You was burned…
They are holding
Each other and they are rubbing backs
And crying, some of them.
and all of our delights
were destroyed.”
They are holding
Hands and leaning into each other
And looking up at the paper.
Some of them are crying and some of them with
Prayers, rolled up small and tight on scraps of paper
They seem to know
An instinct, perhaps, a hidden signal.
When it is time.
They place them in the cracks
Of what remains of the wall
Solemnly, ritualistically,
They approach the paper.
And they add whatever it is they had to add.
They walk away leaving there prayers behind them
Is there a symbolism here?
It is song lyrics for some of them.
It is a love letter for some of them.
It is a long, rambling attempt at constructing meaning.
It is a long
Rambling attempt at constructing meaning.
Plattitude and sincerity
Rub elbows like the jock and the goth here
Rub elbows like the messages from those who did and did not know her.
In my dreams I approached the wall. I wrote:
“Our Holy Temple, which was our glory,
was burned and all our delights were destroyed.
