The Story of the Ruins

I want to write a story of these stones:
of the rooms they divided up, the walls they erected
the cells seperate from the world, where people
dreamed and slept, where the lonliness
of night hit them like a sudden bolt,
so strong I feel it like a phantom now --
of being in a room only big enough
for one bedding, one life,
surrounded by impassive stones,
all walled up in their own world.

I want to write a story
that their bodies carried them
over the threshhold, past the walls;
that they saw in one another the eyes
stained by tears like theirs, that they saw
their own faces in each-other, that
the thundering of their joy
sent the walls crumbling
and swallowed by the ground.

I want to write a story like that, where
today poppies grow
in the cracks of those forgotten walls.