I often think of a brick across the border across the border

across the border

there stands a wall or a brick, maybe

my hands have infused some of my soul into it,

I like to think.

it is a wall bearing the weight of generations

and their stories, their sorrows and their laughters,

their lives are engraved on to it,

layer over layer, generation to generation

and the last one was mine.

the last fragrance it stored was my mother's low effort dish,

the last sound it heard was my father's voice after he came home,

the last name etched in it was my family's.

and after that it got in the sight of the target display of a missile

our fragrances got replaced by smoke

and our laughters turned into screams

the last hand to touch the brick was of some unknown man sitting miles away whose name i don't know,

and i hope neither does the brick,

i hope the last touch it remembers is mine,

I hope, as i sit in a tent, with thousands of others like me

i hope the last brick i touch is of my home

I hope the last house they destroy remains mine

-Alima Iqbal