I live in wall street.
A beautiful street,
purposely built for the “bourgeoisie”.
I had named it wall street-
I know it has a name but I never really bothered- because of the high walls
demarcating it’s inhabitant from the world.
I once asked my mum if the architects were from Jericho,
that only explained why the walls were so high.
Each time I walk or drive down the street.
I hear faceless voices behind the walls-
tiny whispers, others loud-
some in form of tears and others shout-
I think I also hear some like children.
But then again I can’t be sure…
I can’t see past the wall.
The other day my neighbour died,
I didn’t feel bad or pity.
I didn’t know -him or her-
I only knew the wall.
I’ve saved my grief for the day a wall will collapse.
That was the only “person” I truly knew on wall street.