The Wailing Wall

If walls could talk, the Wailing Wall would wait. It would wait until Jerusalem empties, and nightfall darkens its empty streets. It would wait until the fighting ceased, and the three religions flowed into each other like the desert winds - no man, woman, child, or stray wandering the moonlit alleys. Then, it would speak.

It would speak in the tongue of Hebrew, and its voice would be like an echo of Sinai, Gethsemane, or Mount Zion. And as it spoke, the wails of the peoples of Israel would faintly clamor around its resounding words.

"I have seen the tears of millions, in a land dry, and barren - a land where water hides from the beating sun. This city, even in the darkness of night, wears its cloak over a pouring light. Not one whispered prayer, has failed to reach my cragged ears. These many papers slipped into my being, these many pleas and offerings, humble my proud lengths. I have watched generations rise and fall before me like the waves of the Red Sea, and carefully listened to the new sufferings of these ancient peoples. Wars, disasters, and stillbirths - but the name of God is ever on the lips of the multitudes that surround me. Their anguish is never an empty cup, but a shining mirror. Clutch at the many to harm them, and they move as one. Loosen your fingers, and they separate, and fight again. Pilgrims come here not to find treasures, but to lose shackles. Better a humble meal shared here, than a banquet enjoyed alone. This city is a flickering flame, amid the stones of the Nations. Brothers here are brothers, and enemies, enemies. I turn away none but the most haughty. I give away everything, and ask for little in return, except to rest among foundations. I keep no secrets, and conspire with none. This cloudless land, bears the fingerprints of the silent Glory. History here, rarely fades, or passes away. The empty windows here are dark like children's wide eyes - old faces appear in them, to hang out white sheets. The olive trees spiral gracefully, but never too tall - our gardens are modest, but shine with the touch of Grace. Whether church, synagogue, or mosque - stairs to places of worship are never too far. Humble hands do mighty work, while mouths are silent, and not boastful about it. Brick is laid on brick, and stands for ages, for it was laid with the mortar of faith. Goading is quickly spotted, and arrogance swiftly humbled. The souls of the dead do not linger in graves, but drift along the dunes, and lay their heads to dream in inky words. Your city speaks, while mine listens - I am merely a humble messenger, and message-bearer. I bear tears, they do not fall from me. For the ancestors that made me, have sons that ensure my stones remain, unaltered. I bless them with the gift of peace, even as they sharpen and raise more swords. For I see the Hand behind the hand, always at work, fashioning hearts from humble urns into silver goblets. More treasured than honor here, is faith. If the oceans were to crash against this place, they would quickly part in the face of the blood that has painted these sands. The crooked here, bend like thorns at the foot of ripe vines of Truth, and do not darken hearts more than they can bear. And at the end of days, when only Light and beings of light remain, this land will still bear the name, The Holy Land."