magoski
The Old Woman tends her pallet garden. Her voice is picked up by the hydrophones and folded into the morning broadcast. She kneels, smoothing the soil.
She sings to herself.
The whispers, once screams,
"Roots remember what walls forget.
Roots remember what walls forget."
She repeats the words ... until they become chant
These planks are not ruins, they are memory.
The fungi in shadow, the flowers in sun—
they speak louder than the soldiers,
louder than the tourists,
louder than the silence.
