that carry our names. The busts
of this one and that one, this history
is in the hard labor of hearts, thrusts
of piston and valve. I sit down
at the first house, dizzy at the view
over the wall, the tourist town
below us, in buildings made old
by the deliberate hand of business,
not the rain, the sun, the untold
billions of raindrops and tear drops
of soldiers wishing for the lovers
they left behind, untended crops,
mothers weaving braids of grief
in their hair. A little old woman
bounces past me, leaping the brief
weld of stone to stone, the stairs
the legend and skeleton of the wall,
where white cranes dance in pairs.