The Woven Chronicle of the Wall

Not merely stone, not just spread lime,
but an open book, each layer a covenant.
Time accumulates upon it, veil after veil,
and every brushstroke unfolds a sky.
From the first pure white, naked promise,
to shadow patinas, an acute weave.
Day and night, glances, light gestures,
absorbed silently between cracks and reliefs.

Here the red of farewell turns almost gray,
there the blue of beginning finds its shelter.
A thin wrinkle, an unexpected sign,
is the groove of a passage, of suspended weight.
It does not speak aloud, nor does it complain,
but every fiber cements an ancient story.
A delicate skin, perennial embroidery,
of every moment whose trace we leave within it.

Beneath curious fingers, the cold epidermis
keeps halos that time does not exclude.
A childish scratch, a fleeting stain,
every trace is an essence, a life heard.
And if one day the pickaxe violates its history,
every layer, though torn away, will imprison the essence,
of glances that sought a point within it,
in the great tale of what was joined.