Do you hear the walls bleed at night?
Do you hear them weep in whispered wails,
In midnight murmurs no man dares read,
Their tired tales tucked beneath paint—
Beneath the smog of propaganda?
I have seen the silence scream.
I have seen laughter die in daylight.
I have seen light snuffed by sorrow,
By eyes too tired to wonder.
I have seen.
I have seen—
Pillows swallowing sobs like mourners,
Doors that forgot the art of welcome,
Ceilings sagging under secrets,
Windows blinking away the bullets,
As though war were only weather.
The walls—they flinch in fright.
They remember what we bury.
They remember how bullets bloom,
How joy jolts and dies on entry,
How peace parades in camouflage.
They wear wounds beneath wallpaper,
Tremble in the tapestries of time.
I asked the door, “How many left
Barefoot, shadows stretched past dawn?”
It did not answer—but it groaned.
Every crack is a confession.
Every nail, a narrative unnamed.
Even the bricks wear quiet bruises—
Their crimson cloaks camouflaged,
Hidden in the myth of construction.
These aren’t walls—
They are weary witnesses,
To wars the world won’t name,
To peace talks in twisted tongues,
To revolts drowned in diplomat’s tea.
The ceiling does not collapse.
It holds. It bears heartbreak like chandeliers
Cradle dust—ornate, ignored,
Always looming above our heads.
This house is a heart—
Walled, wounded, and waiting.
Its bones are battlefields of breath.
Its silence, a soldier.
Its whispers, weapons.
The ghosts are not gone.
They are archived here.
In folds of faded curtains,
In fractures of frozen frames,
In the scent of saffron and smoke.
I have heard curfews sing lullabies.
I have seen frost kissed by nameless marchers.
While children count coffins like sheep.
I’ve kissed the floor, frostbitten,
That remembers more names than monuments.
Do you hear the walls bleed?
Do you hear the soft, silent scream—
The suffocating cry of a house
That once had a homeland?
Comments